Someone You Love(d)
by ScarLovesGreys
Summary: After Sherlock left for his death mission to Eastern Europe, John kept his hopes up. But after a couple of months, hope turned into emptiness. When the emptiness becomes unbearable, John decides it's time to leave Londen behind. He moves to the small village Fairlight Cove, hoping to find some peace and quiet. But how hard he tries, he can't escape the memory of Sherlock Holmes.
1. Letting Go

_A/N: Oh dear... my first attempt to write a Sherlock Fic (I know, i'm a little late to the party)! Little nervous about it, though..._

**Chapter 1 – Letting Go**

_Days, I've been locked in my thoughts_  
_I keep swimming against waves of support_  
_Darling, I don't know where you've gone_  
_But my shoulders, now they're steady and strong_

_Letting Go - Dotan_

* * *

John sat in his chair and stared outside. The little drops of rain where gliding down the windows. The sky was grey with large, dark clouds hanging above sea. The sea itself was stormy, with rough waves hitting the coastline of Fairlight Cove. Just like it had been for the last couple days, or even weeks. On days like this, John could really appreciate the village.

John loved Fairlight Cove. He had to admit that it felt a little strange in the beginning. After all, he was used to London. The turbulent, busy London. Fairlight Cove was in no way comparable to London. It was small, quiet and calm and everyone knew each other.  
Soon after John moved from 221B Bakerstreet to the small coastal village, he found work as a doctor. The local practice offered him enough distraction. There weren't many interesting cases, but he didn't care. He needed rest and being on his own. And that was exactly what Fairlight Cove could offer him.

He took a small sip from his steaming cup of tea and looked through the living room. It was a cozy, small living room with a comfortable couch, an old leather armchair and a large bookcase full of medical books and journals. All the walls were painted off-white, except for the one on the side of the couch. Three large paintings in calm gray tones hung on the forest green wall.  
On the other side of the room was a sideboard with some photos of his family and friends and an old radio on it. A violin hang above the sideboard. It was one of the few things John had brought from Bakerstreet and one of the few things which reminded him of his former friend.

His eyes even lingered at the violin. The pain and sorrow he had felt for so long had given way wistfulness.  
6 months. That is how long he would go on a mission in Eastern Europe. John had been waiting, along with Mary. For months he had wondered if he was still alive, if he would see him again. But as the months progressed, his hope faded away. Instead, he started to feel empty. It was a downward spiral from there, with the result of him and Mary getting a divorce within the year they got married. Mary took Rosie with her too, but that was a mutual decision. John was okay with it.  
After 9 months John could not bear the pain and the emptiness anymore and decided to leave London, on recommendation of his psychologist. A month later he gave up his rent and moved to Fairlight Cove, with nothing more than a suitcase full of his belongings and an old violin case.

He didn't think about him as often as before. And when John thought of him now, he no longer had those unbearable thoughts, but memories of their past. He didn't allow himself to think of those memories for too long, he couldn't bear those yet, but they were there and that was quite some progress.

His trail of thought was interrupted by someone knocking at his front door. He looked outside his window. There was a woman on his doorstep, but he didn't recognize her. He stood up, walked to the front door and opened it. Immediately, he wished hadn't.

Anthea stood there, holding an umbrella above her head. John knew what it meant right away. She came to deliver a message from Mycroft Holmes. His death notice, probably.

'John, you look… well. Better,' Anthea started. John just gave her a small nod. The last time he saw her, she came by to give him his 8thmonthly report. They were always the same. No change. No sign of him. No word. Nothing.

At first, Mycroft came by in person to tell him, but after a couple of months he started to send Anthea. The 8threport was the last one he got and the last time he heard of Mycroft Holmes.

"Why are you here?" John asked directly. He didn't feel like much small talk.

"Mr. Holmes has sent me to take you to him."

John stared at Anthea for a moment. "No," he replied.

She raised an eyebrow at him. 'No?'

"I'm not coming with you. If Mycroft has any respect whatsoever, he will come in person and tell me they have found his body, "John paused briefly and sighed. "That it is finally over. If that's not the case, then I don't want to talk to him. Report that back to your boss." He grabbed the doorknob to close it.

"I don't think that's what he ..." Anthea began, but John interrupted her.

"I said no. Goodbye Anthea."

And with that, he closed the door.


	2. Arcade

**Chapter 2 – Arcade**

_A broken heart is all that's left_  
_I'm still fixing all the cracks_  
_Lost a couple of pieces when_  
_I carried it, carried it, carried it home_

_Arcade - Duncan Laurence_

* * *

_It was quiet around the house of John and Mary._

_Mary was asleep, the final stage of her pregnancy made her more tired than usual. John sat at the dining table and did the crossword puzzle from the newspaper. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon. John and Mary had put the finishing touches to the nursery earlier that day and went for a little walk afterwards. A perfect interpretation for this lazy Sunday, according to John._

_A few weeks ago, John and Mary had been standing at the airport and watched as the little white private jet took off. It didn't even feel crazy. They had said goodbye to each other. Not in so many words, but John knew what "who knows" meant. He would not come back. It was more likely that he was going to get killed on his mission in Eastern Europe. That was the indication Mycroft Holmes had given his brother._

_And yet there was something that kept John going, something that made this goodbye not so hard. Maybe it was because he did have the chance to say goodbye this time. Maybe it was because they didn't say their final goodbye with so many words. Maybe it was because John felt that they had not finished talking, not yet. But there was something else. Hope? Maybe. Desire?_

_A dark shadow removed the light from the window in the living room and John looked up. There was a large, black car that he knew all too well. John saw Mycroft Holmes step from the backseat of the car and John stood up to walk to the door. He didn't want Mary to wake up._

_John had agreed with Mycroft that he would receive an update once a month on the status in Eastern Europe. Well, agreed ... John had forced it. Mycroft didn't think it was a good idea at first. According to him, it was "for John's own good" that he knew as little as possible about the situation. After all, he had a family to focus on._

_Somehow, Mycroft was probably right. John knew he eventually had to distance himself from his old life, but he couldn't let go, not yet._

_An unsettling feeling crept up. What if this was the only update he would receive? What if it was already over, what if he already died? Then the hope that had kept him going would have been for nothing, an illusion. He quickly pushed away his thoughts. He could and would not think about that scenario._

_John put out his hand. "Mycroft," he said with a short nod._

_"John," Mycroft greeted and shook his hand. "How's Mary?"_

_"Fine," John answered briefly. "Asleep."_

_Mycroft nodded understandably. "I will keep it short. I am here to give you our agreed update. "_

_John said nothing. He looked at Mycrofts' face, but there was no hint emotion in it. Of course not. It was a Holmes. Both brothers were extremely good in hiding their emotions._

_Mycroft cleared his voice. "The situation in Eastern Europe seems stable, for now. Our networks report few suspicious activities. We expect this to be a precursor, that plans and strategies are being discussed but not yet implemented. "_

_John stared at him, waiting for more detailed information. "That's it?" He asked after seconds._

_Mycroft nodded and turned away to get back to his car._

_"And what about Sherlock?" John called after him._

_Mycroft stopped in the middle of the path, his back turned to John. Immediately John felt the uncomfortable, unsettling feeling again. This was not a good sign._

_After seconds, Mycroft turned around. "Nothing."_

_"What do you mean, nothing?" John walked towards him. "Where's your brother, Mycroft? Tell me. Now. "_

_"I can't."_

_John was startled for a moment. He couldn't read the expression on Mycrofts' face. What did he mean? He saw a small flicker of emotion, a hint of pain, but it was just there for a second. After that brief moment, Mycrofts' face had formed his neutral, blank mask again. But John had seen it, didn't he?_

_"I thought we had an agreement, Mycroft," John reminded him, trying to sound as controlled as he could be. He was not going to show his unease in front of Mycroft Holmes._

_"We do," Mycroft replied sharply. "But I can't tell you anything about Sherlock."_

_John started to lose his patience. "And why's that? Is this, once again, one of your little plans to keep me in the dark?"_

_Mycroft frowned and looked down at John. "Dr. Watson, I can't tell you anything about him because we don't know where he is."_

John awoke abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest. He took a shaky breath, trying to calm down a bit.

The dream did not surprise him, given his short meeting with Anthea yesterday. For the rest of that day, he had tried not to linger his thoughts for too long. It was too painful to think of his friends' death. To think about his upcoming funeral, if there was going to be one, again. To think what he should and should not say if, no when, they were going to ask to speech. To think about if he would attend the funeral at all. But of course, his subconscious mind had to betray him at night.

He looked at his alarm clock and decided to get up and take an early morning walk at the cliffs so he could clear his head before work.

* * *

The Harold Road surgery was situated in a large, old mansion at the end of one of the main roads of the little village. The building was opened in 1920 and has since served as the general practice of Fairlight Cove. John ran the services together with four other colleagues.  
He enjoyed working there. It might took a while before he was used to the personal approach that was required for working in such a small village, but after a while he knew his patients and they knew him. It wasn't always as busy as he would like, but that didn't matter. He could do what he was good at, which was his point of working there.

When John entered the surgery that morning, he was greeted warmly by his assistant.

"Goodmorning, dr. Watson, how was your weekend?" she asked and gave him a small smile.

"Goodmorning Holly. It was fine, thanks," he replied and tried to suppress a yawn.

Holly grinned at him. "It looks like you didn't had the best nights' sleep. Would you like to have some coffee?"

Before he could answer, Holly stood up and walked through the door behind the reception. A moment later, she came back with a mug of steaming, hot coffee, handing it to John.

"Uhm, thanks," John replied. "What's on the schedule today?"

Holly looked at her computer screen. "Appointments until 12, and two house visits after that. Mr. Miller called this morning to ask if you could drop by to take a look at Stephen again. His coughing doesn't seem to get better. And Mrs. Kennard threw her back out, again. Oh, and there's already someone waiting for you in the waiting room, but he doesn't have an appointment. I told him you have back to back appointments, but he didn't mind waiting. There you go," she handed John his schedule on paper.

John frowned, looking at his schedule. "Then I'm afraid he has to wait for a long time, as far as I can see. Send him home Holly, let him make an appointment for tomorrow."

And with that, John walked towards his office, ready to start his workday.

* * *

It was a busy morning. John had seen five flu cases, two patients with headaches, one nasty sprain, a patient with a deep cut in his foot, and three patients who needed an exam. By the end of the appointments, he desperately was in need of a second cup of coffee and his 15 minute break. He was just about to walk to the kitchen, when his phone rang.

"Dr. Watson,' Holly started, "there is still one patient left. The man from this morning didn't want to leave. I'm sorry," she added, hearing John sigh.

"I just want a cup of coffee and a 15 minute break," he muttered. "Okay, send him in then."

A moment later, there was a knock on the door. "Come in," John replied, not looking up from his computer screen. "With you in a moment. Have a seat."

"So this is where the famous dr. John Watson works nowadays? How ordinary."

John looked up and froze. There, in the middle of his office, stood Mycroft Holmes.


	3. It doesn't have to hurt

_A/N: Pfew... I had a hard time writing this one! I would like to know what you guys think, so please leave a comment!_

**Chapter 3 – It doesn't have to hurt**

_Could a spark_  
_Illuminate the dark_  
_You did it all_  
_You've always done_

_A false alarm_  
_A light that blinds us all_  
_You're heaven sent_  
_But cold within_

_When you lose yourself_  
_In a gasp for air_  
_When it doesn't have to hurt_  
_It always will_

_It doesn't have to hurt – Kensington_

* * *

Although he was, to say the least, surprised by the arrival of Mycroft, John tried to recover quickly. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, his hands began to sweat, But the last thing he wanted was to show Mycroft his emotions. He got up from his chair, chin up, hoping that the shaky feeling in his legs wouldn't betray him.

He narrowed his eyes and looked closely at Mycroft. The man had not changed much. Still the same neat suits, the slick hairstyle, the same stiff gaze and his umbrella in his hand. Yet, there seemed to be something different about him. he seemed tired, almost exhausted, as if he had slept very badly for a few nights.

As John looked closer, he saw that Mycroft was holding his umbrella more firmly than usual. It looked like he needed the umbrella to lean on so he could to keep his balance, which was strange.

Neither one of the men seemed to want to start the conversation. For moments they stood opposite to each other, waiting for the other to take the first step. The thick, uncomfortable silence hung between them. John searched for the right words to open the conversation, but nothing came to mind. After a few more loaded seconds, Mycroft coughed softly.

"Tea?" John suddenly asked. It seemed the only right thing to suggest.

Mycroft looked a little surprised and frowned slightly. Then, he gave a short nod. John walked out of his office and straight into the kitchen, trying to avoid eye contact.

Fortunately there was nobody there. He took two cups from the cupboard and switched on the kettle. Only then did he notice that his heart was still reeling, his hands still sweaty. He sighed deeply, trying to regain his composure.  
The click of the kettle indicated that water was ready. John poured the hot water into the cups. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his somewhat superficial breathing. He leaned against the counter.

'Come on, Watson,' he thought. 'This is not the time to panic. You know why he's here. You know what he's coming to tell you. You already expected him. Panic is therefore not necessary at all. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.' John took a couple of deep breaths. He felt his body relax a little. For a couple of seconds, he stood there, his hands resting on his face covering his knew he had to get back to Mycroft. He took one last breath and walked back to his office, feeling a little bit more steady.

"I'm glad to see you found the decency to come here in person," John said, putting the cups of steaming, hot tea on his desk.

Mycroft had sat down, his legs crossed, his hands resting on the armrests of the chair. John took back his seat behind the desk.

"Obviously," Mycroft answered slowly.

His choice of words could not have been worse. A shiver ran through John's body. The Holmes brothers didn't resemble each other in many ways, but sometimes they sounded just the same.

"So," John started, not looking up from the cup he held in both hands. He tightened his grip to keep his hands from shaking. "You found him then?"

There was no immediate answer. John really did not want to look up but when he did, he saw the small nod Mycroft gave him.

Although John had been preparing himself for this for months, it still felt as if someone hit all the air out of lungs, as if the ground was sinking underneath him. He sucked in a breath.

That was it. It was over. Defeated by his last mission, died of an honorable death. The way he wanted it. Suddenly John no longer felt the panic he had first felt. He felt a kind of calmness coming up instead. It was what it was. It was the way he wanted to die. It was okay.

John quickly tried to regain himself and got up from his chair. He didn't want to know anything more. He wanted be alone. He held out his hand towards Mycroft as a sign of goodbye. "Thank you for letting me know. If you would like to excuse me now, I have two house visits."

Mycroft didn't move, his face looked puzzled. "Sit down," he ordered. "We need to talk."

"I don't think we have anything more to say to each other."

"Oh, but I think we do."

John started to lose his patience. He gritted his teeth. "I don't need any details, Mycroft," he spat.

Mycroft still didn't move but gave John a piercing look. "Dr. Watson, sit," he ordered again.

John felt the anger creeping into his body and knew that he could not control himself for much longer. Normally, he was able to control his anger. He had learned this during army training. But Mycroft had turned John's life upside down too many times now. The man didn't seemed to have no problem pretending that someone was dead, to let someone do the dirty work "for the governments' best interest," or to send one of his relatives away on a suicide mission. No, he didn't have any goodwill left for the older Holmes brother.

He did not listen to Mycroft. Instead, John walked to the door, opened it, and gestured him to go. "Leave Mycroft, now. Before I will throw you out. I know what you are going to tell me. I've been around your brother long enough, I am able to deduce," John snapped, walking slowly towards Mycroft with a threatening look in his eyes.

Mycroft looked up, straight into John's eyes. "You can't say his name, can you?"

Another rush of anger ran through John's body. Where did he get the nerve, of course he could say his friends' name!  
But he knew Mycroft was right, as always. John always talked about "his friend", or "his brother." He couldn't remember the last time he spoke out his name. Sherlock. It even hurt just to think about him.

Finally, Mycroft straightened his back and looked like he was going to get up and leave. Then he spoke again, not letting go of John's gaze. "John, please sit down."

For a moment, John was startled. Mycroft spoke to him by his first name, something he almost never did. There was something about the tone in his voice, too. John couldn't quite place it. He almost sounded... desperate?

John decided to give in, knowing he would not be able to get Mycroft to leave. He looked away and sat down again behind his desk. He ran his hands over his face and closed his eyes. Mycroft followed John's movements and sat down as well.

"You know," John started, his voice sounding a little weaker then he liked. "I've planned his funeral at least a dozen of times in my head? I even wrote my last words to him." He sighed. "I hate to admit it, but I think even a little part of me feels relieved."

When Mycroft didn't reply, John looked up. He was surprised by the look on Mycroft's face. His expression was soft, thoughtful. He seemed to look for the right words to say. This was not the cold, distant man John knew. Sure, he tried to be. But there were small things that didn't seem fitting. Using his first name. The tone in his voice. The slightly sad look on his face.

An ominous feeling crept up as John looked at him, a feeling he knew all too well. "What's going on, Mycroft?" he asked, his voice slightly hollow.

After a long moment, Mycroft tried to regain his composure and cleared his throat. "I don't expect that there will be a funeral."

'Of course there won't be,'John thought to himself right away. 'Typical.'

But Mycroft continued. "We found him."

John gaped at him in disbelief, his eyes big. The words didn't seem to land. His mind was racing, his heart was, again, pounding in his chest. What did he mean? He didn't understand.

And then, like a bolt out of the blue, it clicked. They had found him. Not his body, him.

"What?" was al John managed to say.

"Sherlock's alive, John."

John ran his hands trough his hair, feeling the panic rush over him. "No," he stammered. "That's not possible. I don't believe you. I swear to God Mycroft, if this once again turns out to be one of your sick little tricks, I will destroy you. I will kill…"

Mycroft cut him off. "It's not. Believe me John, it's not."

There was a slight quiver in Mycroft's voice that made John believe him instantly. He clenched his jaw. How was this possible? How could this be happening, again? Suddenly, John knew exactly why Mycroft was here. He wasn't just here to bring the news, he needed something.

"You need my help," John stated.

Mycroft let out a small sigh. "That I do."

John considered this for a quick moment. Then, he rose onto his feet. "I want to see him."

"Obviously," Mycroft replied. He stood up from his chair, leaning heavily onto the armrests. John saw him wince slightly.

"You're hurt."

Mycroft took hold of his umbrella and stood up straight. "Nothing I can't handle, but yes."

"What happened?" John asked.

"Sherlock."


	4. We Are

_A/N: Thank you for the comments! I'm going on tour with my theatre group this week to play for elder and sick people so I won't be able to write another chapter. Please, let me know your thoughts!_

**Chapter 4 – We Are **

_Walking through the dark night_  
_Calling out a name_  
_I'm waiting for an answer_  
_How did we end up here?_

_Try to find a shoreline_  
_No ground beneath my feet_  
_I may shut the mind down_  
_And try to understand_

_Haevn – We Are  
_

Suddenly, Everything went really fast. From the moment John decided to come along, Mycroft was in control mode. He had canceled John's appointments in no time and arranged a helicopter to bring them to London A driver was already waiting outside for them to take John home so he could pack some things. John went through his house like a chicken with his head off and quickly gathered some things. After a couple of minutes of running around, John sat back into the car which drove off to Brighton City Airport. They didn't speak during the ride.

When they arrived at the helicopter, John and Mycroft quickly walked up the metal stairs, put on their seatbelts and put their headset on. Mycroft gave some instructions to the pilot and in no time, they were on their way to London.

John stared out of the small window, his thoughts lingering. Once he had sat down, his mind began racing. He tried to ignore it, but it seemed impossible. To John's surprise, he didn't have questions. Those would come later. For now he was trying to focus on the facts, something he had learned in therapy. In his mind, he went through the list of facts he knew: '_Sherlock's alive. He is back in London. He was in found somewhere in Europe. He had been there for the last eleven months. He's alive. Sherlock is alive.' _

John repeated this again and again, like a mantra. It was the only way for him to ensure that thoughts like "what if" and "why" did not get the upper hand.

After being lost in his own thoughts for a couple of minutes, John glanced at Mycroft. He was also staring out of the small window of the helicopter. Chin up, his recognizable rigid look on his face. But John could see he was worried. His lips were pursed and he had a slight frown on his forehead. John couldn't remember seeing Mycroft worried before, not in this way.

"Where did you find him?" John asked, trying to get some more facts.

"Kosovo," Mycroft replied, not looking up from his window.

John added it to the list of facts in his head and went through them again: '_Sherlock's alive. He is back in London. He was in found somewhere in Kosovo. He had been in Europe for the last eleven months. He's alive. Sherlock is alive. _

"When?"

This time, Mycroft did look up. "Two days ago," he replied. He seemed to hesitate a bit.

Again, John went through his list: '_Sherlock's alive. He is back in London. He was in found somewhere in Kosovo. He had been in Europe for the last eleven months. He was found two days ago. He's alive. Sherlock is alive.' _

Two days. John was a little surprised by that fact. Anthea stood at his doorstep yesterday. If they had found Sherlock two days ago, it meant that Mycroft didn't wait long to inform John. He had not tried to fix it on his own, which was a first in the history of Mycroft Holmes. Or maybe he couldn't?

'_No. No 'what ifs'. Just stick to the facts. You don't know what to expect,'_John told himself.

"We are descending in 10 minutes," John heard the pilot say trough his headset. Mycroft took his phone from his pocket and started texting again. John turned back to the window and continued to numerate his list of facts once again.

* * *

The car that John and Mycroft had picked up from the London Heliport stopped just outside the center of London in a sophisticated neighborhood with impressive, chic mansions. There was a long line of trees on both sides of the street, all colored in beautiful autumn colors. Mycroft climbed the stairs of a white, stately building, and John followed. he looked for the name of the building on the facade, but he couldn't find it.

Once inside, the building looked like a hospital. But if you looked closer, you could see that it was a very expensive, private hospital. Marble floor, comfortable chairs, attention to decoration and details, no standard work clothes. Of course, Mycroft worked for the British government. Mycroft was the British government, according to Sherlock. Naturally, he could arrange this for his relatives, if he had to.

Mycroft identified himself at the reception with a card and the receptionist nodded approvingly. He then took another card from his pocket and handed it to John. "identification. This gives you access to the entire building, including all wards and treatment rooms."

John just nodded in answer. He followed Mycroft through the corridors of the building. They took the elevator to the third floor where there were various temporary offices and meeting rooms. Mycroft opened one of the doors with his card and entered one of the offices. In the middle of the room was a large desk with a number of files on it. Mycroft sat down carefully behind the desk and John sat opposite him. He said nothing and waited for Mycroft to start the conversation.  
He didn't. Instead, Mycroft looked through the pile of files, took one of them opened it. He took a glance at it. John watched him carefully, but he couldn't read the expression on Mycroft's face. He knew the file was a medical report, Sherlock's medical report. That meant that Sherlock was hurt.

After a long moment, Mycroft looked up from the report. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, he handed the report to John.

"There's not much in there. Just some basic facts. No names, no patient history. We want to make sure no one can trace him down," Mycroft spoke deliberately. John started to read.

_36 year old man, presented with multiple injuries due to unknown trauma. After examination, patient presents with a severe concussion (but awake and responsive), a fractured orbital rim on the left, a fractured ulna on the right, two fractured ribs on the right side and contusions on his upper body, front and back. Possible internal injuries. _

A wave of nausea engulfed John. The injuries made it clear that Sherlock had been abused, and who knew for how long? Maybe for weeks, of even months…  
Of course, John had seen worse cases in Afganistan, he knew that. But this was about his former best friend, about the man who he lived with for years. And that fact made a lot harder to read.

"Where is he?" John asked. He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible, but still there was a small quiver in his voice.

"In one of the wards downstairs," Mycroft replied

"I want to see him."

Mycroft put his elbows on the desk and entwined his hands. He leaned his face on his index fingers. It seemed that he had to think about John's request.

"Dr. Watson," he started after a moment of consideration. "I think you ought to know he's not himself right now. We don't have any specifics on what happened to him, but it has changed him. I must to warn you."

"I don't care. I want to see him," John persisted.

Mycroft let out a sigh. "I didn't think otherwise."

* * *

Department B12, room 3. That was the department where Sherlock was. It was a nursing ward with extra supervision, Mycroft had told John. To John's surprise, there were only four rooms in the ward. The other two rooms weren't occupied, something Mycroft undoubtedly had arranged. Room three was at the far end of the ward. It had a large window next to the door.  
Mycroft had recommended John to stay outside the room for now. John didn't know why, but something in Mycroft's voice told him it would be better indeed. John took place in front of the window, wondering if patients were able to see the person opposite of the window.

Although he was lying with his back to the window, John could say for sure that Sherlock was the one who laid in that hospital bed. His dark curls and his long, slender body under the sheets were unmistakable. John felt his heart beat faster. Until now it could all have been a cruel joke, but now it was real. It really was him.

Mycroft grabbed the doorknob and again, John saw Mycroft's brief hesitation. He braced himself and entered the room.

"Get out," John could hear Sherlock as soon the door was openend.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock. "How are you feeling, brother mine?" Mycroft started, sounding distant and alert.

Sherlock shifted under his sheets to face Mycroft, but John still wasn't able to see his face. "Didn't you hear me? Get out." he said again.

Mycroft started to approach Sherlock's bed. "I did hear you. How are you feeling?"

"Excellent," Sherlock replied sarcastically. "Now, out. Or didn't I beat you hard enough yesterday?"

John froze. The sherlock he knew would never hit his brother. Sure, the two had a special, distant relationship with many unspoken annoyances towards each other, but that never went beyond heated discussions and an occasional insult. Now, sherlock had not only fought Mycroft, but he had done it hard enough for Mycroft to be limping the next day.

Mycroft's eyes flickered briefly at the window where John was behind. "Have you reconsidered your refusal of treatment?"

Sherlock scoffed, anger flickering in his eyes. "Why would I? So I can be your little charity case again? So you can be the big brother who saves the day, again? No thank you, I'd rather die. Now, get the hell out!"

It felt like the ground was swept away beneath John's feet. He couldn't have heard this right, could he?

Suddenly everything happened very quickly. Mycroft refused to leave. In answer, Sherlock began loosening the wires to which he was attached to and tried to pull out his drip. Mycroft tried to stop him, but Sherlock became furious. He started kicking and beating around him. With a swing, Sherlock hit Mycroft hard against his nose.

"Sherlock, stop this nonsense. Calm down!" Mycroft tried, but nothing seemed to work.

John was already at the door to enter when two nurses pushed him aside and ran inside. They acted quickly and injected a drug into Sherlock's drip. In no time, Sherlock stopped kicking and fell asleep almost immediately.

Mycroft hurried out of the room, ignoring John. John followed him to the nearest bathroom. Mycroft was bend over the sink, blood dripping from his nose.

"Let me have a look," John offered.

Mycroft gave him a sharp glance. "Don't bother."

John approached Mycroft. "Mycroft, let me help. It could be broken."

"It's not."

John looked at Mycroft for a second. "Look," he started carefully. "It's not your fault."

"Dr. Watson, Mycroft spoke deliberately. "My brother was held hostage for months. They found significant traces of gamma hydroxybutyrate in his blood. He was tortured, physically and mentally. It was my idea to send him to Eastern Europe. And you are saying it's not my fault?"

* * *

The rest of the evening passed by in a haze. Mycroft and John had not spoken about what had happened. Mycroft had allowed John to take a quick look at his nose, which was not broken, and had ordered a ride to take John to his hotel.

John didn't enter when he stood in front of the hotel. Instead, he started walking, his thoughts blank. There was too much information, too much to process. He knew he would go crazy if he had to be alone this evening.

He didn't know how long he had walked. It could've been fifteen minutes, it could've been an hour. He stopped at a house he recognized, walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell.

After a moment, the door opened. Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, looking utterly surprised by the sight of John at his doorstep.

"Jesus, John! What a surprise! What are you doing here?"

John didn't answer.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked puzzeled.

"I need a drink," John answered flatly.

Lestrade looked at him and nodded. He stepped aside and let John in.


	5. The Storm

**Chapter 5: The storm**

_I've been running to the shoreline_  
_To the shelter over hillside_  
_Under bridges that you built for me_  
_We're bracing for the daylight_

_Are you ready for the storm to come?_  
_Are you ready for it?_

_The Storm – Causes_

* * *

Dry mouth. Headache. Nauseous. The awful feeling of a hangover engulfed John even before he opened his eyes. He immediately regretted trying. The room was spinning heavily his headache spiked. Even the smallest crack of light that came through the curtains was too much. He struggled for the glass of water and the paracetamol that stood on the bedside table next to the guest bed.  
Greg Lestrade was a good friend. Not only had he correctly estimated that John would have a decent hangover the next morning, but he had been the best company John could have wished for that evening. Without asking questions, he'd grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured two glasses, and silently let John drink his first glass. After that he had subtly started about recent cases at New Scotland Yard. This had been the opening for an evening of talking and drinking, without John having to tell why he was in London and what was going on. This was something John was very grateful for.  
John tried to get his body under control and rose. He grabbed the towel that Greg had laid out for him and went to the adjoining bathroom with a little more difficulty then he anticipated. He turned on the tap, undressed, stepped under the warm jet, and closed his eyes. The water felt refreshing, cleansing. It was exactly what he needed after the rollercoaster of yesterday. After a long shower, he dressed himself, brushed his teeth and walked towards the kitchen.

"Good morning John, feeling okay?" Greg asked, looking up from his newspaper once he heard John enter.

John nodded. "Yeah, bit hangover."

Greg cracked a small, knowing smile. "There's coffee if you want. Would you like me to make you some breakfast?"

John walked to the counter and poured himself a large mug of black coffee. "Have to keep this down first," he replied and sat down at the kitchen table opposite to Greg.

Greg returned to his newspaper, but John could see he wasn't reading. He was waiting for John to start the conversation.

He put down his mug. "I know you have questions."

"I don't," Greg said, not looking up from his newspaper. "But if you want to talk about it, you can."

This was another thing John appreciated about Greg. He knew Greg wanted to know what was going on, but he didn't push. He never did. Even though he was a DI and knew countless techniques to retract information from someone, he never would use those on friends.

John took another sip from his coffee. Suddenly, he felt the urge to tell. He needed to vent, he needed to share. It was just too much to keep to himself, even though he didn't know he was allowed to tell.

"He's alive," John started, his eyes on his mug instead of the inspector. "Sherlock. They found him."

Greg's eyes grew big. "No way. That's not possible. Are you sure it's not of Mycroft's schemes? Another one of his twisted…"

"It's not," John interrupted him, still not looking up. He couldn't stop talking now. "I saw him. He is in a private hospital just outside of the city center. Mycroft came to Fairlight Cove yesterday, took me to see him. He was found in Kosovo a couple of days ago. Nobody knows what happened."

"Not even Mycroft?"

John shook his head. "No, I don't think so. He tried to talk to Sherlock multiple times. But he isn't talking. He isn't himself. He's aggressive, violent even. Attacked his brother twice."

"Jesus," Greg breathed.

"He's hurt. The injuries he has suggest he's been tortured back there. Multiple breaks, a heavy concussion, contusions, internal bleeding probably. They found gamma hydroxybutyrate in his blood."

"GHB?"

John nodded. He wanted to say more, but stopped. He didn't register that little fact properly yesterday. A shiver went through his spine. He knew how susceptible Sherlock was to drugs. He also knew GHB wasn't his drug. Heroin, cocaine and sometimes painkillers were his drugs of choice, not GHB. That only meant Sherlock hadn't taken it voluntarily.

Suddenly more memories from yesterday came to the surface. John felt panic engulfing him while Sherlock's words surfaced in his mind.

I'd rather die.

His hands started shaking. Sherlock refused treatment. He had internal injuries and refused treatment. Was it because he was being stubborn? To prove a point to his brother? Would Sherlock really go that far to risk his own life, even after he was rescued from Kosovo?  
But John knew that was not the case. If only it were. No, this realization was much worse. Sherlock didn't want to be helped, he didn't want to be saved. This was Sherlock throwing in the towel.

"I don't know why I'm here. Mycroft came to me to ask for my help. I don't know what I could do what he can't do himself." John's voice sounded small, not his own. "I think he doesn't want to survive this."

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "That can't possibly be true. I've seen Sherlock going through hell and back, but he never stopped fighting."

John finally looked up at Greg. "He refuses treatment."

The inspector's face softened when he saw the unshed tears in John's eyes. He gave John a moment to blink them away.

"You still care about him," he said after a while.

"Of course I do."

"More then you want to," Greg continued.

John didn't reply and shrugged. Of course he cared about Sherlock, that was no secret. He'd always care for the man, friends or not. But why did Greg's statement made him feel uncomfortable then? And why was he so affected by all of this, more then he wanted? Why did it feel like he was about to lose someone he… loved?

"Look," Greg started after a long pause. "I'm sure Mycroft asked you to come with him for a reason. There will be something you can do. Maybe not now, but there will be. But please John, don't lose your faith in him. Not if he doesn't have any left of his own."

John opened his mouth to reply, but got interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. There was a text from Mycroft.

Car is waiting for you at Lestrade's house. -MH

It didn't surprise John anymore. Of course Mycroft knew he didn't went to the hotel last night.

He raised from his chair. "I have to go. Thank you for everything, Greg. I owe you one."

"Nonsense, that's what friends are for. Just promise me you'll call me if you need anything of if you need company. You need people."

John nodded and gave the inspector a little, knowing smile. Without further words, he left the kitchen.

* * *

Mycroft waited for John by the large window of Sherlock's room. When John approached, he saw that Mycroft's nose had become blue and swollen overnight. That must've hurt.  
He stood next to the older Holmes brother. Mycroft kept looking through the window, his attitude professional and distant. It was clear that the emotion John had seen yesterday after the conversation with Sherlock was unintended.  
John looked through the window. Sherlock was facing him, his eyes closed. This was the first time that John could take a good look at his face. He had become thin, dark circles under his eyes. His left orbital rim was stitched up, showing an impressive dark blue and purple bruise. His face was hard, tense. He was shivering and small drops of sweat formed on his forehead where his black curls got stuck.

"Withdrawal?"

Mycroft nodded in answer and John sighed. He saw Sherlock lunging forward, and was just in time to take a spit bucked so he could throw up. John flinched slightly. He knew this was only the beginning. Withdrawal from GHB could take weeks.

When Sherlock was finished throwing up, he lay down again, his knees raised to his chest. He clenched his unhurt arm around his stomach. His face showed a pained expression.  
John started to worry. These were definitely signs of internal injuries.

"He's in pain."

Again, Mycroft nodded, his face still focused on the window with a closed expression. John suddenly realized this was Mycroft trying to keep control of himself and his emotions. It wasn't he didn't have any, he just didn't want to show them.

John noticed he started to lose his patience. There must be something they could do to convince Sherlock, something they could say.

"Why don't you let me try to talk to him?" he tried.

Mycroft shook his head and looked at John for the first time since he arrived next to him. "I don't think Sherlock will forgive himself if he'd hurt you while being in a psychotic state. That, and he doesn't know you are here. The stress it could cause will likely be too much for his body right now."

From his medical perspective, John knew that was the right call. But it didn't keep him from feeling helpless.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft started slowly after another minute of staring. "When do you believe a patient is no longer capable of making his own medical decisions?"

John looked at the man. "You want to declare him medical incompetent? Sherlock?" He laughed hollowly. "I don't think he will ever be incapable to make his own decisions, even if he is psychotic."

"I think we have to, if it comes down to it."

John shook his head. "You really want to bypass his wishes?"

"I know you believe otherwise, but I don't want to bury my own brother," Mycroft spat.

This stung. Of course, John didn't want to either. He knew Mycroft cared much more for his brother then he showed.

John changed his tone. "Okay. If you think that's best. You can make the decision for him if he is no longer capable of doing himself."

"And that's just the problem. I can't."

John started to get frustrated with Mycroft. What did this man want? First, he wanted to declare Sherlock medical incompetent so he could make the decisions for him, and now he couldn't do it? "Of course you can."

"I'm not his medical proxy," Mycroft said, tiredness audible in his voice. "Of course, my brother is full of surprises. He assigned you."

John stared at Mycroft, not able to get a word out of his mouth. He was Sherlock's medical proxy? Why? How? He didn't sign anything, did he?

And then, he thought of a conversation he and Sherlock had two years ago. It was a brief one, just a casual talk between two friends. But Sherlock had taken it serious, very serious even.

"I can't do anything against his wishes," John stammered.

"For God's sake John, look at the man!" Mycroft snapped. "You know what's happening inside his body. He's slowly bleeding to death. You really think he wants to die?"

The panic took over John's thinking. "I… I know. But… I can't. You should be the one making the decisions, not me. I don't know what he wants, I know nothing. I'm just a friend…"

"Except you are not."

John just looked at Mycroft, bewildered. He didn't know how to reply.

"There's a note."

John didn't understand. What was Mycroft talking about?

"When we found him and collected his clothes at the hospital, there was an old note in the inner pocket of his coat. It's for you," Mycroft explained and sighed.

"Did you read it?"

"I did. You should, too."


	6. Give Up

_A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I really love to hear from you guys. __And o dear, o dear, this is gonna be a hard one to read (it was a hard one to write as well)..._

**Chapter 6: Give up**

_I know you, you'll never  
__Give up on me, give up on me  
Even when I let you  
__Give up on me, give up on me  
Oh, when I'm out of place,  
__When I'm losing faith  
__You're the one that never lets me roam  
You'll never give up on me_

_Give up - Birdy_

* * *

John wasn't a drinker. Weeks could pass by without feeling in need for alcohol. Yet this was the second night in a row he was drinking, this time a much too expensive bottle of whiskey from the minibar whose bill would eventually go to Mycroft. When he got back to the hotel room he had immediately knocked back his first and poured in a second, much too full glass.

The note Mycroft told him about this afternoon laid on the side table next to him, visibly damaged. To tell the truth, John wasn't sure he wanted to read it. He hardly couldn't bring himself to it. He felt numb, his head was too full. No new information could be added. He was too tired to think. Yet he knew there was no escaping it. his curiosity would eventually beat the resistance.

After another large gulp of whiskey, John had gathered enough courage and started to read:

_Dear John,_

_There are not enough words to express what I want to say to you. I feel we still have a lot to tell each other. We are not finished talking yet. Although there are a number of things I would rather say to you face to face, and there are certainly an equal number of things that would be better if they were not discussed._

_First, please know that everything has been tried to prevent this, not to have to leave you again. But there was absolutely no other way, Mycroft can confirm that. I hope you will understand that someday._

_Please, try to stay strong. There are enough people who are going to need you. And even if you think that's not the case, think about your future daughter. She needs her father._

_Second, I want to thank you. When I first saw you at Bart's, I knew you were interesting, but I never dreamed that you would be the best thing that happened to me. I am extremely grateful to you for the role we have been able to play in each other's lives. Flat mates, partners in crime (how ironic that may sound), best friend ..._

_Yet, those words do not cover it. You mean so much more to me, more than I dared say to you. But I don't think it will solve things if I would've said it anyway, so I think it will be best to leave this subject undiscussed. _

_Last, there will probably be some practicalities you need to sort out regarding my belongings and our apartment (yes, it's still our apartment. Baker Street is still on your name too. I didn't have the heart to take your name off the lease). Mycroft will help you with that. As for other stuff, I believe everything is arranged. But should it be that there are still some decisions that have to be made, I trust you. I know that if the time comes and you need to, you will make the right choices for me. I trust you blindly, as I have always done and I will always do. _

_I hope Mary will give you all the happiness, since I am no longer able to do that. You deserve the world, John Hamish Watson._

_Love,_

_Sherlock._

At the bottom of the note, there was something written down in a different color, probably added later:

_Mycroft, would you make sure that John gets this when needed? See it as a final favor._

John stared at the note in his hand. Minutes passed by. He re-read it, desperately trying to remember every word of it, trying to understand what Sherlock had try to say to him. But he couldn't. His emotions got the better of him.

His cheeks were strained with tears, he hadn't even noticed he had started crying. He never cried. He tried to remember himself to breath and drew out a shaky breath. His hand found his glass of whiskey, but when he wanted to take a sip, it was empty. He must have drank it while reading, but hadn't noticed tht either.

He was fighting an inner battle with his conscience. Sherlock trusted him to make the right decision, but it wasn't really his decision to make. Sherlock had already decided and John really didn't want to go against Sherlock's wishes. He couldn't. If Sherlock would survive this he would not be able to forgive John, and that was something John couldn't live with. But he absolutely did not want to lose him. Not again, not definitive. It was an impossible choice to make.

Suddenly, a noise filled the room. John was startled by the sound. He looked around, but couldn't quite place it. Then he saw the phone on the desk. Who would call to his room and not to his mobile phone?

He cleared his throat and answered it. "Yes?"

"Why are you not answering your phone?" John heard Mycroft say. His normal, composed tone was completely gone. "I've been trying to contact you for fifteen minutes!"

"I…" John started, but he was cut off.

"You need to get to the hospital, right now. There's a car outside. He knows it's urgent."

John grabbed his coat and took off, leaving everything else behind.

* * *

When John came running, there was a lot of commotion around Sherlock's room. Mycroft was in a fierce discussion with one of the doctors, the other one standing next to Mycroft.

John looked into the room briefly. A number of nurses were busy with the administering medications or preparing things. He was able to catch a glimpse of Sherlock and instantly knew what was going on. This was bad.

Mycroft immediately turned around when he heard John, ignoring the doctor opposite to him. "He was declared legally incapacitated an hour ago. We need a decision on that to do."

John didn't give an answer. He looked past Mycroft into the room. "I need to see him," was all he said. He tried to walk passed the doctors, but one of them stopped him.

"Doctor Watson, I don't think that's wise."

But John didn't care. He pushed the doctor aside, entered the room and stood by the bed.

He looked at Sherlock's face, which was extremely pale. His eyes were shut tight.

John heard someone calling his name, but he didn't respond. He tried block out the people and the voices in the room. His focus was now completely on Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John tried. He really tried to keep himself together, but his voice shook anyway. He didn't get any response.

He tried again. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. John's heart sank when he saw the pained, almost desperate look in his eyes.

"J… John?" he managed to say between whimpers.

John was completely grounded for a moment. Then, he grabbed Sherlock's hand with both of his. He took a deep breath and started to speak, trying to keep his voice as calm and steady as he could. He knew he had to be very clear.

"Listen to me. The doctors have declared you medically incompetent, which means I have to decide if they can operate. If they don't, you will die. Do you understand me?"

Sherlock nodded, pressed his eyes shut again and let out a groan of pain. John's chest clenched painfully by the sound. With every bit of strength he had, he tried to continue.

"I need to know if you want me to let you go, because I can't make that decision for you, I won't." John was fighting back tears now. "But if that's what you want, I will. I will let you go."

For a split second, John was terrified he wouldn't get an answer. Then, Sherlock tightened the grip around his hand slightly. "John," he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. "John I don't… please," was all he managed to say.

That was all John needed. He grabbed Sherlock's hand as tight as he could and let out a quivering sigh of relief. "it's okay, we've got you. I've got you," he whispered.

John's head snapped up. He tried to make himself as tall as he could. He knew he had to give orders like in the army.

"Okay, go!" he demanded.

Everyone fell silent instantly, all eyes were now fixed on John. Even Mycroft was taken aback.

"Didn't you hear me? Go!"

Nobody moved, only glances were exchanged.

"Dr. Watson, you don't get to…" spoke one of the doctors hesitantly.

"Yes I do get to. Now come on people, let's move!" John practically yelled. Why didn't they move? He looked at Mycroft for support.

When their eyes met, Mycroft snapped back into reality. "He has final say," was all Mycroft needed to say.

The tall doctor standing next to Mycroft was the first one who started to move. "You've heard the man, let's go. We don't have any more time to waste."

Suddenly everyone started moving. The doctors immediately walked away. The necessary devices were disconnected and the bed was removed from the brakes. Two nurses were ready to take Sherlock, a third stood by the door to keep it open. They all looked at John. Only then did John realize that he was still holding Sherlock's hand. He quickly let go and immediately the bed was rolled out of the room. Mycroft hurried after them, looking over his shoulder to John.

"Are you coming?"

But John didn't answer. He stood in the middle of the room, unable to move. He started to feel sick. He turned quickly, grabbed the closest spit tray and vomited.


	7. To Be Brave

**Chapter 7: To Be Brave **

_You try to be brave, make it go away  
Leave the lights on sometimes all night  
And carry on regardless  
So you won't get swallowed up by the darkness_

_Try to be brave, don't give the game away  
You're a strong one, just carry on and  
No one needs to notice that there's  
Only silence holding this_

_To Be Brave – Bryde_

* * *

"Here."

John looked up. Mycroft stood before him, handing him a disposable cup of tea. he took the cup and waited for Mycroft to sit next to him.

"Thanks."

When Mycroft gave no further response, John dropped his elbows back on his knees and clutched the cup of hot tea between his hands. He stared at the steam rising from the cup.

He was calm, in army doctor mode. This was a crisis and he was trained in this. Someone had to stay strong, someone had to be able to make decisions. And John knew he was the person that job. This was what was expected of him. By himself, by Mycroft and by Sherlock.

He looked at his watch. It was 11:14 p.m. It was going to be a long, sleepless night. The surgery started 45 minutes ago. A splenectomy. The spleen was the organ that had caused the internal bleeding. The operation would take two to four hours, if there were no complications. They would try to do the surgery laparoscopically to ensure that Sherlock's body had as little stress as possible under the circumstances. Everything was risky enough already.

John felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He knew it was Lestrade with an answer. John had texted him half an hour ago with a short update. With one hand, he took the phone out of his pocket while he nipped from his cup.

_Do you want me come over? Keep you company? - GL_

_No, it's fine. Mycroft is here. - JW _

_Hmm, good luck with that. Keep me posted. - GL _

John put back his phone and made a mental note to take the inspector to a pub on his costs as a thank you.

"There should be an update within minutes, as I requested." Mycroft spoke suddenly. John wasn't surprised that Mycroft had demanded hourly updates and even though John knew everyone would be incredibly busy, a little part of him was grateful for this request.

It took another ten minutes before John heard a soft knock on door of the waiting room. John stood up immediately, and so did Mycroft. Without waiting, a resident entered. He definitely was in a hurry.

"Doctor Wilson started a laparoscopic splenectomy with anterior approach. Everything went as expected, but when we identified the splenic artery, the patient started bleeding profusely. Doctor Wilson is prepping for an open splenectomy as we speak, but requested your approval before proceeding."

John heard Mycroft sigh. He knew what he thought. This was the first setback. It was naïve of them to think it would go as plan, that everything would be easy. They both knew that with Sherlock Holmes, that was just too good to be true.

"I approve," John said in a calm, deliberated tone. "I trust that doctor Wilson knows what's best. But I want to make sure she attempts to save as much of the spleen as possible. Tell her it will not be removed without my permission, understood?"

The resident looked like he was about to argue with John. He opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. Then, he just nodded.

"Good. Now go," John ordered. He turned to sit back in his chair and saw Mycroft nodding approvingly.

* * *

The second setback came at 00:57 a.m. They were now operating for about three hours, and there hadn't been an update in an hour and a half. Mycroft was starting to get inpatient and started pacing the room.  
John also started to feel nervous. He was sure that no one in his right mind would ignore Mycroft's request, not if it was absolutely necessary. He began tapping his fingers against the armrest.

The resident didn't bother to knock this time. When he entered the waiting room, Mycroft immediately walked towards him. "You better have a good reason for not updating us in time," Mycroft spit, trying to keep his self-control. The resident ignored the older Holmes brother and directed himself to John.

"Doctor Wilson Is trying to save the upper lobe of the spleen. At first, it looked promising. She was able to dissect the affected part and just started to suture the parenchymentous vessels."

John and Mycroft didn't respond. Both knew this wasn't the whole report. They waited anxiously for the resident to continue.

"However, the patient started to present signs of a pneumothorax. We did a bronchoscopy and were able to repair the damage. Doctor Wilson strongly advises to switch to a complete splenectomy so that the patients' body doesn't have to experience more stress from the surgery then necessary."

John shared a look with Mycroft. They both knew that a complete splenectomy meant. The risk of getting infections and getting sick was much higher. Sure, you could live without a spleen just fine if you would take your medicines every day and just be careful . But it would mean that Sherlock had to adapt his current lifestyle. And that was never going to happen.

Mycroft was the one who decided this time. "He's stable for now?" he asked. The resident nodded in answer. "Then we would like to stick to the original plan."

"Sir?"

"Continue the partial splenectomy." Mycroft's voice sounded annoyed. John couldn't blame him.

"Sir, I don't think you are making the right decision," the resident started impatiently. "Taking out the complete spleen will be quicker and the patient can live without…"

John cut him off. "Do you even know his name?"

"Excuse me?"

John walked closer to the resident. "You keep referring to him as the patient. What's his name?"

The resident didn't answer. Instead, he looked at Mycroft for support. Big mistake.

"I am going to teach you a valuable lesson, one you will remember the rest of your career." John's voice was dangerously calm. He had his hand clenched in fists, the look in his eyes furious. "You don't know a thing about the person lying on the table. You don't know if he's married, if he has children or if he's a criminal. You don't get to decide anything," John told the resident trough clenched teeth.  
"This man you are operating on? He's someone's child, someone's brother and someone's friend. And above that, he is a good man. So the least you can do is show some respect and learn his damn name!"

John waited for a response, but didn't get any. "You heard mister Holmes. If he's stable, continue the surgery as initially planned."

The resident looked utterly frightened when he stormed out of the waiting room, but John couldn't care less. He turned and looked up at Mycroft, who was smirking.

"What?" John spit.

"Now, I do understand your excellent reputation at the 5thNortumberland Fuseliers. Nobody would dare to go against captain John Watson."

* * *

John looked at his watch. 03:18 a.m. It had been more than two hours since they had seen the resident. Maybe he just was too afraid to show his face again, but John could not shake the nagging feeling he had started to feel. He tried to remain calm and steady, but deep down he was frightened. He knew something was off; the surgery was taking too long. "Something's wrong," he stated.

Mycroft looked up at John with a serious face. For a moment, he was thinking. Then, he stood up from his chair. "I think we ought to get our own update, then."

John stood up and quietly followed Mycroft trough the building. He suddenly realized that he had developed a new sense of respect for the man. Even though the relationship with Sherlock might have been disturbed, it had become clear how much Mycroft cared for his brother. The fact that he had simply accepted that John had the final say regarding Sherlock's health was perhaps the best example of this.

After they had taken the elevator, they arrived in the basement where the operating theatres were located. They held their cards against the lock and hurried through the sliding doors. John heard a woman call after them, but completely ignored it. Only when he heard his name for a second time, he stopped.

The woman who called after John walked towards them. "Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, what on earth are you doing here? You're not even sterile!"

Mycroft did not seem impressed. "We came here to collect an update, since you clearly forgot our agreement, dr. Wilson."

Doctor Wilson sniffed. "I apologize, Mr. Holmes. We were busy saving your brother's life," she said sarcastically.

"What do you mean?" John asked immediately, no longer able to hide the anxiety in his voice.

Doctor Wilson seemed to realize she was talking to family. Her face relaxed slightly. She turned to John, sighed and started talking. "I was able to partially save the spleen, but when we closed, he crashed. We had to shock him twice before he came back."

A rush of panic went through John's body. It must have shown on his face, because the doctor quickly continued. "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes is stable now. He's in the recovery room. It won't be long before we can take him up to the ICU."

John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply. He made it. He survived. He was going to be okay. He looked at Mycroft, who was also visibly relieved.

"Thank you," John replied softly after a moment.

The doctor nodded in answer. "I will speak with you tomorrow to work out a treatment plan. We still have a long road ahead of us. For now, try to get some sleep." With that, Doctor Wilson walked away, leaving Mycroft and John behind.

* * *

At 4:46 a.m., John was finally able to see Sherlock. He had received an extensive briefing from the head nurse of the ICU, something he greatly appreciated. John had tried to listen as good as possible, even though the imminent tiredness came calling. Now that the danger had passed, John knew that his body would give in to that fatigue.

The fact that John had previously seen Sherlock in the ICU, didn't make it much easier this time. He was still taken a little aback. Despite his height, Sherlock looked quite small in the large hospital bed. The amount of equipment was considerable and a fair number of tubes disappeared under Sherlock's duvet.

John grabbed a chair and put it next to Sherlock's bed as quiet as he could, not wanting to wake Mycroft who was asleep in the far corner of the room. He sat down and immediately grabbed Sherlock's hand. He ran his thumb across the back of it without thinking.  
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open for a second. He looked at john and John saw that he was fighting to keep his eyes open. John just gave him a little, reassuring smile. "Go back to sleep, I'll be right here," he whispered. Sherlock closed his eyes again and within seconds, he was drifting off into the hazy world of sedatives and painkillers.

John ran his other hand trough Sherlock dark, thick curls. A simple, loving gesture. It was full of meaning and emotion, but John was too tired to wrap his mind around it. The fatigue hit in, making it hard to keep his eyes open. His head felt heavy. Slowly, he sank down and rested his head next to Sherlock's, still holding his hand. He quickly fell asleep and for a couple of hours, everything seemed under control.


	8. Long, Long Way

_A/N: first: I'm not a medical expert, but google is my best friend. There will probably be some things that are incorrect, but i'm doing my best :)  
__Second: I'm really to like writing this fic! Didn't know i would have so much fun. And the best part is hearing from you guys in the comments, It makes me so happy! So please, let me hear some more! :)_

**Chapter 8: Long, Long Way **

_Long, long way to the top_  
_Long way down if you fall_  
_And it's a long way back_  
_If you get lost_

_Long, long way – Damien Rice_

* * *

John suddenly woke up from the hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, still without focus, and it took a while before he realized where he was and what had happened. When the realization hit, he shot up and was alert immediately. He looked behind him and saw that Mycroft had woken him up. Mycroft gestured that he should say nothing and that he had to follow him to the hallway.  
John's eye stuck on Sherlock, who was still vast asleep. Only now could John see what the many tubes and devices were for. A gastric feeding tube, two drains, a catheter, a central line and an artery line. His heartbeat and blood pressure were constantly monitored. For many people this would be a frightening sight, but John found it reassuring. As a doctor, he knew that this meant that Sherlock was being closely monitored. The fact that he had survived the first few hours without complications offered a good perspective on full recovery.

Mycroft was waiting for him outside the room. He looked like shit. He was pale and his eyes were small with deep, dark circles underneath them. He hadn't shaved in days, showing a stubble on chin and jaw. His hair was tangled and his clothes were wrinkled. In other circumstances John would make a remark about it, but he probably looked just as bad.

Mycroft tried to suppress a yawn. "I've scheduled an appointment with doctor Wilson at 11:00. I'd suggest we use the 2 hours we have to eat something and fresh up a bit."

John hesitated. It didn't matter how attractive a shower was right now, he didn't want to leave Sherlock alone. But he also knew he had to take care of himself as well.

Mycroft saw the hesitation in John's face and continued. "I could order someone to bring you some clothes. I expect they have a shower somewhere here and there is a cafeteria downstairs."

"That would be nice, thank you." John said, his voice still sounded a little rough from sleep.

Mycroft nodded in response. "I'll be back in two hours. Do get something to eat." And with that, the older Holmes brother walked away from John.

John watched him walk away and decided to get back into Sherlock's room. He sat down in the uncomfortable chair again and continued to look at Sherlock.

He realized it was the first time he was alone since Mycroft had picked him up, apart from the brief moment in his hotel room yesterday when he had read Sherlock's note. And all of a sudden, he felt exhausted. It felt like his world was upside down again, and he wasn't able to control it.

In the last 72 hours, he had returned to London to see his best friend again, who was supposedly dead, and had to see him giving up. He had read Sherlock's farewell letter to him, of which he had absolutely no idea. The words of it had touched him deeply and had triggered some very new and raw emotions of which John didn't even knew he had. He then had to rush back to the hospital to make a decision on which Sherlock's life had depended on. He had to sit there for hours and wait for setback after setback, in the hope that he had made the right decisions and that Sherlock would survive everything. And he almost didn't.

Joh ran his hands across his face. He suddenly had no idea how to handle all of this and he knew this was just the beginning. The hardest part might even have to come.

His attention was drawn to the sudden movements that Sherlock made. His heart rate spiked. John immediately got up and hurried to the bed. He put a hand onto his shoulder. "Are you awake? What's wrong?"

"It hurts," Sherlock groaned and his face twisted in a painful grimace.

"What hurts?"

"Everything!" Sherlock spat venomously.

John immediately came into action and pressed the alarm button. Within seconds, a nurse came into the room. She saw what was wrong and acted quickly. She walked out of the room, came back with a injection and put it into Sherlock's IV. It took only a couple of minutes before Sherlock relaxed slightly.

"What did you gave him?"

The nurse gave John a small, knowing smile. "Tramadol. We were told not to use ketamine or morphine unless it's absolutely inevitable."

John let out a small sigh. "good, that's good. We don't want another relapse." He returned his attention to Sherlock. His chest was still heaving, but apart from that he looked a lot calmer. His head snapped at John and the look in his eyes told John he was about to pick a fight with him. John knew it was best to walk away now.

"I'll come back in a couple of hours, okay? Try to rest," he simply said while he tried to keep his tone as composed as possible. Sherlock was about to make a comment, but John turned towards the nurse. "If there's something wrong, just call me. I'll be around."

* * *

"We have a lot to discuss and I don't have much time, so let's get right to it, shall we?" Doctor Wilson spoke immediately when Mycroft and John entered her office. She didn't look up from Sherlock's file. John sat in front of her and waited patiently, but Mycroft didn't even bother to sit down.

"First things first. The surgery went as well as expected. I was able to spear the upper lobe of the spleen. There were some complications, of which you are aware. It wasn't a large pneumothorax and the drain should prevent it from happening again. I think we can remove it in a couple of days. The rest will heal in time. We should be able to start with solid food tomorrow so we can remove the feeding tube, and I will order to remove the catheter by the end of the day."

"And what about the fact that you had to shock him? Twice? I don't think that that's part of the normal procedure, is it?" Mycroft snarled.

Doctor Wilson stayed completely composed. "It isn't. But we think it wasn't due to the stress of the surgery, but due to drugs withdrawal. Which brings me to the second thing I'd like to discuss. I strongly advice against stopping cold turkey. I am aware that is the wish of the patient, but as we've seen, his body cannot handle it. We've still provided him with Gamma Hydroxybutyrate, but I think it would be best to start detoxification right away."

John shifted in his seat. He felt slightly uncomfortable discussing this. He knew Sherlock was an addict and that drugs always would seem attractive to him. They had talked about it and John had helped him get through his bad days. But he had been clean for at least four years. Now it felt like they had to start all over again from the beginning. Even if he hadn't administered the drugs himself, something John was convinced of, he still had to go through the terrible stages of withdrawal.

Doctor Wilson continued. "There are different treatments regarding detoxification. I'd like to present three options to you. All three of them have good results, but only you can decide which is best for Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft decided he had to sit down for this and took a seat next to John. "Last time he detoxed with Methadone," he stated.

"Yes, that's used most of the time with a heroine detox. However, It will not work on GHB." Doctor Wilson smiled sweetly at Mycroft. "The first, classic, method is to start detoxification with Diazapam. We'll switch to a schedule to decrease the dosage until we reach zero. The downside to this treatment is that there will be some withdrawal symptoms from Valium as well.  
The second method is quite the same, but we'll use pharmaceutical GHB instead of Valium. We'll decease the dosage to zero in approximately twelve days. The downside to this kind of treatment is that we don't treat the psychological issues such as hallucination and psychosis, but we can monitor that and treat it with other medications.  
The third method is an rather unknown method, mainly used in America. It would require bringing Mr. Holmes in a medical induced coma for about two weeks. That way, his body can recover and get through the detox without experiencing withdrawal symptoms."

"No," John said abruptly. "That's not going to happen. I'm not putting him in a coma ."

Doctor Wilson narrowed her eyes and looked at John for a second. "Doctor Watson, I know you have to deal with a lot right now. But as a colleague, I'd like you to advice to put aside your personal opinion and look at this professional. My advice would be to go for option three."

"No. End of discussion. If you put him in a coma so he doesn't have to experience the withdrawal symptoms, he will relapse. He needs to feel this, needs to know what it's like."

"You are aware of the fact that you will put his body through a lot of unnecessary stress?" Doctor Wilson now snapped. She sat down straight in her chair, her eyes hard as steel.

John started to lost his patience. Why was it that everything had to be a discussion? "And if you put him in a coma he has to go through that again when he relapses. Can I already reserve a bed? Because he will be back here in months.

Mycroft intervened. "Doctor Watson is right. My dear brother will, unlike every other human being, be best off when he experiences the detox. Only that will keep him from slipping. And I'm not going to pick him up again if he falls down."

Doctor Wilson let out a frustrated sigh and looked at Mycroft sharply. "I thought I was the one in charge of your brother, Mycroft."

Mycroft didn't seem impressed. "You are, if you are capable to see the bigger picture and make decisions not based on what's the easiest option , but on what's best for your patient, Ellen," he told her matter-of-factly.

Doctor Wilson didn't reply. John was sure she was holding back a snappy comment. It seemed to take her every bit of willpower to keep her professional attitude. After a long moment, she continued. "So then, which method will it be then?"

John hesitated for a moment and went through the options in his head. The first method was not ideal, John was afraid that Sherlock would become depended on Diazepam, but to give him GHB in order to detox from said drug felt contradictive. Then again, it was the best option available.

"Let's go for method two then, if you think that's best," John spoke, looking at Mycroft instead of doctor Wilson. Mycroft nodded in agreement.

Doctor Wilson started to write some things down. "Pharmaceutical GHB it is. Now the last thing I wanted to discuss is his mental state. I like to suggest talking to a psychiatrist and to start with EMDR treatment as soon as possible if we want to treat his PTSD."

Both John and Mycroft nodded in agreement. They knew it would take everything to get Sherlock to talk to a psychiatrist. John suddenly felt tired. How on earth were they going to manage that?

"I'll talk to him. I think I have some tricks up my sleeve to make sure he will cooperate," Mycroft said, giving John a knowing look. Then he stood up. "If that's all, doctor Wilson?" He held out his hand and waited for her to shake it. After that he walked away, leaving John behind.

* * *

When Mycroft entered the room, he saw that Sherlock was staring at the ceiling. He was tapping the fingers of his free hand impatiently against the mattress. "Don't worry, your next dosage will be here soon."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "You look like shit."

"And you have been looking better yourself, brother mine," Mycroft commented while he sat down in the chair next Sherlock's bed.

"Piss off, Mycroft."

Mycroft took a moment to carefully arrange his words in his head. He knew he had to act precisely, otherwise he wouldn't be able to convince Sherlock. He had a plan: target Sherlock's pressure point. And Mycroft knew his pressure point was John Watson.  
"I'm sure they told you how the surgery went. I spoke to doctor Wilson. They'll start your detox tomorrow and send in a psychiatrist."

Sherlock let out a hollow laugh. "And you think I will cooperate?"

Mycroft kept his face completely blank. "Yes, In the end, I think you will. For him, you will."

Sherlock faced away from Mycroft and Mycroft knew he had to push trough. "You know you flatlined? Twice? Even though you eventually decided to live, you almost died."

Sherlock remained silent but Mycroft saw his body tense, exactly what he wanted. This was going to work.

"Listen," Mycroft started, carefully choosing his words. "I know you threw in the towel. That you rather would've been dead than saved. But this is not just about you. I know I don't have much to ask and that my sentiment will not touch you enough. But there is someone here who has not left your side since he knew you were back. Someone who fought for you to make sure you would survive, to make sure you have a chance to fight this. And I know you don't have any problems hurting the people around you. But if you now choose not to fight, you take him with you."

"Oh please, stop with the pity party, would you?" Sherlock snapped, but he didn't sound convincing. Something in his voice cracked and Mycroft knew he had Sherlock right where he wanted him to be.

"How can you tell him to be strong if you can't do the same thing?"

Mycroft saw how his words pierced through the façade Sherlock was trying to hold up. Sherlock's body tensed some more, a slight shiver ran through his spine. He pressed his eyes shut.  
Mycroft knew it wasn't fair. He knew it would only take a small push to get Sherlock over the edge. And somewhere deep down, he felt a little guilty. But he knew it was the only way to get Sherlock to cooperate.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. "I don't know how to be," he said with a small voice.

For a long moment, they were silent. Mycroft gave his brother time to pull himself together a bit. When he had, Sherlock turned his head to face Mycroft in search of some reassurance.

Mycroft stood up from his chair and placed his hand on Sherlocks shoulder for a brief moment. "Then we have to figure that out along the way."


	9. Can't Pretend

**Chapter 9: Can't Pretend **

_Love, I have wounds_  
_Only you can mend_  
_You can mend oh oh oh_

_I guess that's love_  
_I can't pretend_  
_I can't pretend_

_Can't pretend – Tom Odell_

* * *

The next couple of days went by in peace. Doctor Wilson had decided that Sherlock no longer needed to stay at the ICU and had ordered to remove the catheter, drains and feeding tube. Sherlock was now back at his old room and feeling better every day. The detox was going fine and he didn't have much withdrawal symptoms. He even had talked to his psychiatrist and agreed on a treatment plan to start the EMDR sessions.  
John did not leave his side and Mycroft was also always close by. Johns mood started to go up and he became more relaxed each day. They had some small talk, had some discussions about useless things and even cracked a joke from time to time. Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but it started to feel a bit like before.

This evening went on quiet as well. Sherlock was laying in bed reading articles on his phone and John was doing a crossword puzzle he had found in the newspaper.

"9 horizontal is Leila, the priestess of Bizet's 'the pearl fishers'," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone.

John smiled a little to himself and wrote down the answer. He continued in silence and finished the crossword. Then, he folded the newspaper and looked from his watch back at Sherlock.

"It's fine. Say hi to Lestrade for me."

John let out a small chuckle. "How did you know?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "You texted him two hours ago. Your text wasn't long so it was someone you know and knows you're in London. And got a reply right away, Lestrade always texts back immediately. It was obvious."

John smiled a little. "I'm glad you're feeling a bit better. I should go then. Do you want me to bring something?"

"Some cold cases."

He watched how John raised an eyebrow. "You want me to ask Lestrade to give you cases? Are you sure?"

Sherlock yawned in answer. "I'm getting bored."

"I'll ask," John said while he stood up from his chair and put on his coat. "Sherlock, would you mind if I go back to my hotel afterwards instead of dropping by?"

Sherlock didn't see this coming. John had stayed with him each night long after he had fallen asleep to make sure he was okay. This would be the first night on his own.

"If you want me to come back then…" John started, but Sherlock him off.

"No, it's fine. Go sleep. You need it."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock tried his best to create a reassuring smile. "Yes. Don't pay for that expensive hotel room of yours if you are not going to use it."

"You know Mycroft is paying, right?" John grinned.

"In that case, you should order the most expensive bottle of champagne tonight, just to piss him off," Sherlock replied and gave a small grin as well.

"I will. See you tomorrow then. If you need company or anything else, just call me."

Sherlock waved it away. "Please John, I don't need a babysitter."

He watched John walk away from his room with a smile on his face and Sherlock couldn't help it but think that this almost felt like old times. But then, he realized that was a very dangerous thought.

* * *

John's sleep was roughly disturbed around 2:30 by his phone. It took a while before he registered what was happening. Only when his heard the sound for a second time did he realize that it was his telephone. He shot up immediately. This could not be a good sign.

He groped for his phone in the dark and answered. "Hello?" His voice sounded rough and thick with sleep.

"Doctor Watson," it sounded on the other end of the line. John immediately knew it was the hospital. "I'm sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but we don't know what to do with Mr. Holmes. He has been very nervous for a few hours and doesn't talk anymore. When we get close to him, he only seems to become more anxious. We cannot administer medication or help him this way. "

John jumped out of bed right away, turned on the lights, and quickly gathered some clothes. "Have you already called Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes, he is already on the way. He thought you would appreciate it if we would call you too."

He clenched his phone between shoulder and chin so that he had his hands free to change. "Thank you. I'll be there as soon as I can. "

In a record time, he had put on his clothes and got into the back of a black car that for some reason always seemed to be ready to drive him to somewhere. It only took 10 minutes to drive to the private hospital, but that was long enough for John to worry. He could not help but wonder what could have happened. He made sure everything was fine when he left at the end of the evening. And yet there must have been something that had caused the sudden change.  
Once at the hospital, John hurried down the corridors. There was no sign of the hustle and bustle that dominated the hospital during the day. He hardly met anyone and in the rare case that he did, the person was introverted and quiet.

Arriving at the room, He saw a nurse standing at the window, looking nervous. When she noticed John, she walked towards him with a guilty look on her face.

"Oh doctor Watson, I'm so sorry," she started, sounding slightly frightened. "I don't know what happened. I was getting him ready for the night and everything was fine. We were even chatting. I left him alone for a minute to grab some things and when I came back he was completely zoned out. I don't know what I did wrong." The young nurse panicked.

John didn't have time to respond. Mycroft stormed into ward. "What on earth did you do?" he yelled at the nurse. John saw her flinch slightly and felt some pity for her.

Mycroft didn't wait for an answer. "Get out. Go get someone who is capable of handling my brother, because you clearly aren't."

The nurse walked away with her tail between the legs. Mycroft turned to the window to see what was going on. John watched how his face fell and all color slowly pulled out of his face. "Are you alright?" He asked, but Mycroft didn't answer.

"He's having a panic attack," Mycroft muttered, still looking pale. John looked at Mycroft and tried to read his face. He almost looked scared.

"He had those when we were young," Mycroft continued. "Got stuck in them for hours." He shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

"Okay, and what do we do?" John asked.

"I don't… uhm… I think I should go in. "

But Mycroft didn't move. He was hesitating. John realized this brought back memories for Mycroft, ones he clearly had tried to push away deeply. And now, he was fighting them. "Do you want me go in first?" John asked carefully.

Mycroft seemed to ponder this for a moment. Then, he gave John a small nod. "Yes. Thank you, doctor Watson," he said, sounding slightly relieved.

When John entered Sherlock's room, he became aware of the whole situation. Sherlock wasn't in his bed but sat in the far corner of the room. How he had managed that, John didn't know. He sat on the ground with his knees against his chest and with his hands he gripped his head tightly, covering his ears with the palms. He was muttering something, but John couldn't understand what he was saying.  
John realized that he had to approach this situation extremely calmly and carefully. He had had panic attacks himself when he had just returned from Afghanistan, but never as bad as this. This was a whole new level of panic.  
He started thinking about what he needed at those moments. He had needed quiet. No sudden movements or noises. Reassurance. He needed to feel safe, to not feel alone. John swallowed. He knew he had to try everything to succeed. If he didn't, Sherlock wouldn't trust him anymore.

Even though his first instinct was to approach Sherlock and to touch him, John knew better. No sudden movements. "Sherlock?" he started, surprised to hear that his voice sounded completely steady. "I'm here. I know you can hear me. I am going to help you."

Sherlock didn't answer. John walked a bit further in to the room and looked around. There had to be something that triggered this. He started walking. His mind went a thousand miles per hour. There was no radio on. He checked if the TV was still on, but it was turned off. There was no book, so Sherlock hadn't read something that might had upset him. The lights were on, so it wasn't darkness that caused him to panic. He went through the conversation earlier this evening. Was it something he said? Was it something he did? But he couldn't think of anything.

"Sherlock, did someone say something that caused this?" John tried, but there was no response whatsoever. That was not it, then. He sniffed, maybe it was the smell of something that triggered this. But he couldn't smell anything. Food then? No, he had his last meal when John was still there. His eyes darted the room, but he couldn't discover anything new.

John started to feel a little panicky himself. He desperately wanted to find out what could cause this, but he just couldn't find something. What if there wasn't a cause that he could take away? Would it be possible that all of this was inside Sherlock's head?

John desperately tried again to make Sherlock talk. "Please, tell me what's wrong Sherlock. I don't think I can help you if…" But he suddenly stopped. He heard it. The tap. The tap was dripping.

John hurried to the sink and jerked the handle of the tap as hard as he could. The dripping stopped and a horrible realization hit him. A shiver went down his spine and he felt a wave of nausea. During his work in Afghanistan, he had heard of an old torturing method where they slowly dripped water onto someone's scalp or forehead for hours to get information out of them. It drove people insane in the end. Was this one of the things what had happened in Kosovo?  
For the first time since Sherlock was back, John understood why he had given up. He could see why he thought he couldn't come back from this. No one could go through this alone, not even Sherlock. Something inside John's chest contracted painfully by the thought of that.

A small sound from the corner of the room made John snap out of his thoughts. He walk towards Sherlock and kneeled down next to him, acting on instinct now instead of common sense. Now that he was closer, he noticed Sherlock's shallow breathing. John knew that he had something to do about that, otherwise he would collapse.

"Hey," John started carefully. He gently grabbed one of Sherlock's wrists, not caring if it was the best thing he could do right now or not. Sherlock didn't flinch. Instead, he let John pull his hand from his ears slightly. "It's okay. There's nothing there anymore."

When Sherlock realized John was right, he pulled both of his hands away. For a second, John was relieved. But then he heard Sherlocks breathing quicken in a pace that was quite alarming. "Easy Sherlock, try to breath," he said in his most quiet voice." In through your nose, out through your mouth."

But it didn't help. Sherlock's breathing quickened even more and he started gasping for air. John grabbed him firmly by his shoulders. "Calm down, you are starting to hyperventilate. Stop fighting Sherlock, you are okay." He tried, desperately trying to make contact.

Sherlock didn't calm down. John moved closer and decided to try something different. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and waited for a moment to feel if there was a reaction. When Sherlock didn't pull away, John started to speak softly. "Focus on me, follow my breathing. Can you feel it? Try to breath with me."

He tried to keep his own breathing as strong as possible. After a couple of long minutes, John heard Sherlock's breathing grew a little more steady. Little by little, he seemed to come back from it and John was relieved. It looked like the tide finally was turning.  
Without warning, a rush of emotions came over John and suddenly he felt everything. But mostly, he felt pain, maybe heartache even. It hurt. It hurt to see Sherlock like this. It hurt like hell.  
John didn't want to lose it in front of Sherlock. He had to stay strong. He pulled back a little so he could take a deep breath and looked up, trying to regain his composure. But Sherlock didn't let him. He grabbed John's arm as if he tried to prevent him from leaving.

"John, please."

It was barely a whisper, but Sherlock's voice cut through John's heart like a knife. He just couldn't stand it any longer. He pulled Sherlock to him and closed his arms around him. He held him tight, letting Sherlocks head rest against his chest. He felt how Sherlock began to shiver under his touch.

"It's okay, you are safe. I'm with you," John whispered softly. "Try to relax. It's going to be okay, love. I'm not going anywhere." John was only vaguely aware of what he just had said. For a brief moment, he wondered if Sherlock had heard it.

Then, Sherlock placed a hand on John's back as a response and John had to fight back the tears that threatened to spill.

* * *

John had no idea how long they had sat on the cold floor. They sat in complete silence and John felt how Sherlock slowly started to relax, almost melting against his chest. He waited patiently for Sherlock to make the first move, not able to let go just yet.

After a couple of more minutes, Sherlock lifted his head slightly from John's chest and looked up to John. "Thank you," he said softly. He sounded completely worn out.

John just gave him a hint of a smile. "Do you want to get back to your bed?" Sherlock nodded.

"Okay, we'll ask someone to help." John shifted slightly. "Let me just call someone."

But that wasn't necessary. The door of the room opened and Mycroft walked quietly towards Sherlock and John. Without a word, he took Sherlock by one arm and let John get up. Together they lifted Sherlock on his feet and guided him to his bed. When they stood opposite each other, John's eyes met Mycroft's and he instantly knew the older Holmes brother had seen and heard the whole thing. He felt his cheeks flush.

When Sherlock finally laid down against his pillow, Mycroft gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and decided to leave the room in silence, leaving Sherlock and John behind.

Sherlock looked up questioningly into John's eyes. John didn't need words to understand what he meant by it.

"Don't worry, I'll stay."


	10. Open Your Eyes

**Chapter 10 - Open Your Eyes**

_All this feels strange and untrue  
And I won't waste a minute without you  
My bones ache, my skin feels cold  
And I'm getting so tired and so old_

_The anger swells in my guts  
And I won't feel these slices and cuts  
I want so much to open your eyes  
'Cause I need you to look into mine_

_Open Your Eyes – Snow Patrol_

"I can't help it that you've got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, but some cooperation would be nice!"

"I said no."

John felt a wave of anger flowing through his body. He had thought that after his panic attack last night Sherlock realized that it was best for him to cooperate, but now everything started from start to finish again. Today would be his first EMDR treatment, but to John's great frustration, Sherlock had taken matters into his own hands and canceled it.

John let out a frustrated growl. Sherlock, I assume you realize as well that this can't continue, right?"

Sherlock huffed dismissively. "I'm very well capable of taking care of my own mental state. I don't feel the need to talk to some know-it-all shrink who will just poke around inside my memories let me do all the cleaning up afterwards."

"Oh, that's a low blow and you know it." John decided to try something else. "Look, I know you are embarrassed about last night…"

Sherlock's head snapped up. "I am not embarrassed!" he snarled.

"What is it, then?" John fired back.

Sherlock glared at him for a long moment, but didn't seem able to find the right answer. Instead, he just let himself fall onto the mattress and continued to stare at the ceiling with an angry frown on his face.

John knew he had to be the bigger person here. He knew Sherlock was traumatized and that he was going through detoxification, making everything even harder for him then it already was. But he just couldn't bring himself to it, not when Sherlock was acting like a five year old. "I'll go talk to Mycroft, then."

"Oh of course, go blab to bloody Mycroft. You two are becoming two peas in a pot," Sherlock spit venomously.

"I'm not going to blab, I need to talk to him about what happened last night."

"Same difference."

John closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed in a long, deep breath in order to keep control of himself. "I want to help you Sherlock, but you are making it very hard for me to do so," he started in his don't-mess-with-me voice. "You are fighting me every step of the way. I don't know what's going on inside that giant brain of yours, but you need someone to help you cope with it. If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine. But you need to talk to someone. I'm going to reschedule your session. End of discussion."

There was no response. John knew that Sherlock knew this wasn't up for debate and he was glad he didn't try. Sherlock was visibly taken aback by his words and was just blinking at John. After a long moment, he spoke.

"It's not that I don't want to. Talk to you, I mean. I just… can't," his voice sounded defeated.

John sighed and felt his anger eb away. "I know you can't. That's why you need to have this appointment. And why you have to let me talk to Mycroft if I need to. You can't let me figure it all out on my own. We both are on your side, you know."

Sherlock just gave a nod in answer and John managed to give him a small smile. "Listen, I will ask if your session still can continue this afternoon. I'll come back afterwards, I have to go somewhere. Let's pretend this conversation never happened when I get back, yeah?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but decided to let it pass. "Fine," he answered finally. 

* * *

John had a plan. A tricky one, but it was worth the try. If it would work, it would be the final push that Sherlock needed. John wanted to let him feel safe, he wanted to reinsure that it was going to be okay. But he couldn't do that on his own. He needed help with that.  
That was why he now stood on the doorstep house that was far too familiar. It felt strange to be back at 221B Baker Street. It took him a while before he had the courage to take the handle and knock at the door.

After a moment, the sound of footsteps came near and he heard a key scraping the lock. The door opened and Mrs. Hudson looked at John with big eyes.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson," John said shyly.

She then squeaked in enthusiasm and pulled him in a tight hug. "Oh John! It's so good to see you, it has been ages! What are you doing here? Come in, come in!"

John entered the familiar hallway and gave a sideways glance. Something unsettling grew inside of his stomach. He sighed and lingered behind Mrs. Hudson. If he had known then what he knew now, he would not have given up his lease. He wouldn't have left. He would have stayed, waiting for him. The regret he felt was almost overwhelming.

"Come on dear, let me make you some tea," Mrs. Hudson said and gave him a knowing smile. John returned her smile. God, he loved that woman.

He followed her into her own apartment and set down at the kitchen table. He watched her make tea and suddenly found it hard to break the news to her. She had been there for him when Sherlock went away. She came by every other day to check up on him and had been a tremendous help with little Rosie the first few months. Even though she missed Sherlock incredibly, she had stayed strong for John and kept her hopes up for him. She had not blamed him when he finally told her he was going to leave London. She understood. But John knew it was hard for her to see another of "her boys" leave.

Mrs Hudson put two cups of steaming hot tea on the table, together with some of het self-made scones. John couldn't help it but smile. "He'd love those," he mumbled. His head shot up immediately and was afraid he had said too much already.

But Mrs. Hudson just reached out to his arm and patted it gently. "I know dear." Her voice was soft and full of love. "How are you holding up? You look better, a little tired maybe. Is Rosie keeping you up, dear?"

Oh no. John realized that he hadn't told Mrs. Hudson about his divorce with Mary. How could he possibly tell her everything that had happened without hurting her? He let out a sigh and braced himself a little, his face serious. "Mrs. Hudson, I need to tell you some but you need to promise me to let me finish, okay?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded and sat up a little straighter. John took his cup of tea with both hands looked down at it for a moment, trying to find the right words. "Mary and I got a divorce a couple of months ago. I was a mess, couldn't deal with everything that was going on. So we decided it was best for the both of us to go separate ways. Rosie is staying with Mary." John paused for a moment, looked up at her and saw the shock on her face. After a moment, the shock turned into compassion for him.

"So Rosie isn't the one who kept me awake the last couple of days," John continued. "Mycroft came to see me last week. At first I thought they had found his body, that everything would finally be over. But that was not the case." John swallowed and looked back at his cup, his hands trembling slightly. He took a breath. "Sherlock is back. He is in a private hospital here in London."

Mrs. Hudson let out a squeal and John looked up in surprise. "Oh I knew it! I knew it from the moment I saw you standing on my doorstep!"

John felt a rush of relief going through his body. Of course she knew. Mrs. Hudson knew everything. He chuckled a little and couldn't suppress a smile, but his face fell into the previous serious look almost immediately. "He's hurt, traumatized and afraid. I'm trying to help him as much as I can, Mycroft is too. But I think I could use your help."

"Of course, dear. Whatever you need."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Her face looked puzzled for a moment. "Will you come back to Baker street when Sherlock's feeling better?"

John raised his eyebrows. He had not expected this question. Of course they wouldn't return to Baker Street. It wasn't theirs to come back to anymore. "I don't think so. I don't want you to have to kick someone out because of us."

"nonsense dear, of course I couldn't rent it to someone else. It's your home, you two belong here. Besides, your name is still on the lease."

John just looked at Mrs. Hudson in astonishment. What on earth was she talking about? And then, he remembered. The note. Sherlock had put his name on the lease too. A small shiver ran through his spine. The thought of him being back with Sherlock at their beloved apartment was just too much. It was something he could only hope for. And then again, he realized that it would probably be a bad idea. There were just too many memories behind those doors.

John cleared his throat. "I… I don't know. I haven't thought about what will happen when Sherlock gets out of the hospital, to be honest."

Mrs. Hudson patted him on his arm again. "Don't worry dear, you'll two have enough time to figure things out. Now, how can I help?" 

* * *

"Are you positive that this is a good idea?" Mycroft asked John.

John didn't answer the man. They stood outside of Sherlock's room and were waiting. John didn't know it would be a good idea. But it had to be. He had made sure Sherlock was feeling okay, that he wasn't feeling too unstable of worn out from his EMDR treatment earlier this afternoon. Sherlock had waved away every form of concern and had given John an honest answer about how he felt about the treatment. This had reassured John to go through with this.

Lestrade was the first to arrive. He greeted John with a friendly embrace and gave Mycroft a short handshake. Mrs. Hudson soon followed, pulling John into a tight hug and ignored Mycroft completely.

John let them have a glance into Sherlock's room and gave him a moment to accommodate. Lestrade just stood there and said nothing, his face tight and serious. John knew it was hard for him to see one of his friends like this, especially after what they had been trough together. Lestrade knew Sherlock long before John did and although John didn't know the details, he knew Lestrade had always been there for him.  
John had expected Mrs. Hudson to burst out in tears by the mere sight of Sherlock being back in living form and was ready to comfort her, but she didn't. Instead, there only was fondness in her eyes.

John decided it was time and entered Sherlock's room. This was all according to a plan which he and Mycroft had discussed earlier.

"Back already?" Sherlock asked without looking up from his phone.

"Yeah," John just answered. He walked towards the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock eyed him. "How many times are you going to ask me that same question tonight, John?"

John gave him a small smile. "Just checking." He looked down for a moment, trying to find the right words to announce the two visitors. "Do you trust me?"

"Always. Why?"

"Well," john started, suddenly feeling a little unsure about this whole plan. "There are two people who'd like to see you, if you are up for it."

Sherlock didn't respond. He just gave John a questioning look. John glanced at the window and nodded slightly.

A few seconds later, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson walked slowly into Sherlock's room. Sherlock's eyes grew big. John saw this, placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay," he said softly.

Lestrade was the first to speak. "Hey Sherlock."

"Hey," Sherlock managed to say. His voice sounded rough.

Mrs. Hudson didn't speak. She walked closer to Sherlock and took his hand, as if she was checking if he was real. She furrowed her eyebrows and looked at him with a serious expression. "It's so good to see you, dear," she finally spoke. Her voice sounded nothing but kind and John could see Sherlock's fear melt away.

John looked up to the doorway and saw Mycroft standing in it. He gave John a small nod and John knew it was time to go.

"I'll be outside the room if you need me," he said to Sherlock and gave him one last smile before leaving the room, feeling relieved. 

* * *

When John entered the room an hour later, Sherlock laid on his bed looking at the ceiling. John didn't know what to expect. It had gone rather well. Mrs. Hudson had been sweet and reassuring and Lestrade was able to peak Sherlock's interest with some cases he told him about. But now that they were gone, Sherlock became silent.

"Hey," John said quietly in hope to wake Sherlock from his train of thoughts. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, not meeting John's gaze. John sat down and waited for Sherlock to start talking. He watched him open his mouth to say something, and then he closed it again.

"Thank you," Sherlock spoke after a moment. John didn't answer. He looked at Sherlock and saw him struggle. he gave him a moment to find the right words. There was another long silence.

"You know, when I left," Sherlock started, still not looking at John. "I didn't think I would be able to see you again. I thought it was our final goodbye. I knew I had to try, though. That's why I managed to stay alive for so long. And then, something snapped. I didn't see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore." He took a deep, shaky breath. "I gave up."

John couldn't bring himself to speak. This was the first time Sherlock let his guard down and spoke of what happened to him. He looked at Sherlock and was sure he saw the shimmer of tears in his eyes. He reached out for Sherlock's hand and took it in his. Sherlock closed his fingers around John's.

"But you don't give up on me." It wasn't a question, more of a statement.

"No, I'm not."

"Why?"

John didn't speak for a long time. A rush of realization hit him. He knew the answer. Of course he knew. _Because I love you, _is what he wanted to say, what laid on the tip of his tongue.

But he couldn't say it, not yet. "Because you're important," he answered instead.

"I'm done giving up." Sherlock said, sounding determined all of a sudden. "I want to fight this. I just don't know how, and it's driving me insane."

"I know."

Sherlock met John's eyes and held his gaze for a long time. For a moment, the world stood still and John almost wanted to ask about the note, about the unspoken things Sherlock wrote about. But he knew now was not the time, nor the place.

"You are getting there," John finally said, gave him a small, crooked smile.

Sherlock returned John's smile. "I think i am."


	11. Run To Me

_A/N: Whoops. I played laser tag with my friends the previous week, fell and hit my head against the corner of a wall. I survived, but writing with a concussion isn't the best combo. But I'm back now!_  
_Although, I'm struggling a bit with fic... It would really help to hear something from you guys so I can find some new motivation!_****

**Chapter 11: Run To Me**

When you've got shadows  
Underneath your sun  
And there's no oxygen  
Inside your lungs

If you ever feel  
The need to run  
You can run to me

Run To Me - Causes

* * *

"Shit."

John stared at his phone. He had four missed calls, two text messages, and one voicemail, all from the same number. When he tried to call back, no one picked up. He quickly sent a text message with an apology and sighed.  
He hadn't realized that he had been away from Fairlight Cove for a week and a half already. John had relied on Mycroft to take care of everything and the man had. He had canceled John's appointments, made sure he could take a leave of absence without any problems. But of course, Mycroft had not taken care of his personal appointments. Not that he had many of those, but this one was a long-time arrangement, one he took very seriously. This was the first time he had forgotten about it and he hoped that his simple apology was enough. He didn't want to explain the whole situation. He even didn't know if he was allowed to.

His phone buzzed with an answer. "Okay, but we need to talk soon."

John typed a quick response and put his phone away. He took the large mug of coffee in both of his hands to warm up a bit and looked outside the large window. The café across the hospital was where he spent most of the long moments waiting for Sherlock to finish his therapy sessions. It gave him time to think.  
Sherlock was getting better and better each day, at least physically. The detox was going well, he would reach zero in three days. He didn't need many medications anymore and most of the injuries would heal with time. The physical therapist was coming by today to examine Sherlock and give him some exercises and after that Sherlock would be allowed to get out of bed, which was one of the final steps of preparing him to go home. He still had to go to his therapy sessions and checkups, but there would be no medical necessity to keep him at the hospital.  
But the thought of Sherlock getting to go home didn't make John jump up and down with joy. It meant that he had to tell Sherlock that he no longer lived at Baker street anymore. John thought Mycroft had told him, but a brief remark from Sherlock the other day made clear that he thought John stayed at the hotel because of the traffic issues otherwise. John didn't have the guts to tell him then, but he knew he had to in the upcoming days and he didn't know how well Sherlock would take it.

John took a large sip of his coffee and looked at his watch. Sherlock's therapy session was finished in about 15 minutes. He took another gulp, stood up and put on his coat. He waved at the girl behind the counter as a goodbye and the girl gave him a friendly smile back.

It only took him about a minute to get to the hospital, but another 10 minutes to get to Sherlock's room. When John stepped inside, he noticed that the therapist was already gone. Sherlock laid on his back and covered his eyes with his arm. Mycroft sat in the chair next to the bed. John noticed the worried expression on Mycroft's face when he looked at him.

"Is everything all right?" John asked. He got no response. Sherlock didn't move and Mycroft just looked at his brother awaiting a reply.

John grabbed another chair and sat next to Mycroft. He took a good look at Sherlock and noticed every bit of color in his face was gone. Tiny drops of sweat coated his forehead and he was trembling slightly. John noticed the paper spit buckets on the nightstand. His gaze shifted from Sherlock to Mycroft, who gave John a knowing look. Mycroft hesitated to say something but didn't.

John reached out to Sherlock's other hand. "Hey, are you okay?" he asked gently.

Sherlock pulled back his hand. "I'm fine." He didn't sound convincing at all. John heard a snort next to him.

"You're not fine, dear brother."

"Sod off, Mycroft."

John raised a questioning eyebrow at the older Holmes brother, who just sighed in answer. "Care to fill me in here? What happened?" he asked Mycroft, but Sherlock was quicker in response.

"Nothing happened."

Mycroft ignored his brother and started to explain. "He passed out and got sick afterward. We had to stop the session."

John's mind went into overdrive right away. "Did someone examine him? What kind of tests did they order? Do you have any other symptoms?" He asked and stood up to take another look at Sherlock.

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan and threw is arm away from his head. "For God's sake, I'm not sick!" he growled, looking in John's eyes. "There was just too much to cope with during the session and my body couldn't handle the stress."

John froze mid-movement and felt a slight blush creep up his cheeks. He felt a little embarrassed. He was perfectly aware of the side-effects of EMDR. He was a doctor! "Sorry," he mumbled and slid back in his chair.

Sherlock just waved his hand dismissively. "You two need to stop hovering. It's annoying."

The three men sat in silence for minutes. John realized this was a good sign. Sherlock had admitted that the session was too much. Not only Sherlock noticed it himself, but he actually said it out loud. That meant the issue he had been working on during the session wasn't as much of a big deal anymore, which was good.

After a long pause, Mycroft cleared his throat. "Well then, if I can't be of your assistance anymore brother mine, I will leave you be. Do try to get some rest before your physical therapy." Mycroft stood up and waited for a response, but all he got was a huff. Mycroft nodded to John as a greeting and walked out of the room.

Sherlock let out a long sigh when his brother was gone and relaxed a little. He pressed his eyes shut and sank a little deeper into the mattress.

"You're still not feeling quite well, aren't you?" John asked quietly as he watched Sherlock's troubled expression.

"Nauseous."

"Do you want me to ask for something to help you with that?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered almost immediately.

"Okay." John stood up from his chair. "Do you want to rest? I can ask the physical therapist to come by later this afternoon."

Another immediate answer. "Yes."

John waited a moment before walking to the nurse's station. "Do you want me to leave too?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock opened one eye and shot him a look. "Don't be an idiot, John."

* * *

After two hours of peaceful quiet Sherlock woke up again, just before the physical therapist arrived. He sat up straight right away and was almost eager to start, which made John laugh a little. The physical therapist introduced himself as Patrick and gave John and Sherlock a firm handshake before sitting down in the chair next to the hospital bed.

"Let's get right to it, shall we? The main goal today is to get you out of this bed and walking down the corridor. I also want to discuss your living situation. I think we can manage this in one session, but if it's necessary I will come back tomorrow." Patrick took Sherlock's chart and a pen and scanned the documents. John was sure the man was thoroughly briefed because he didn't seem to be surprised by what he read at all.

"Let's start with the questions first so I have a clear vision of what I'm dealing with here." Patrick didn't look up from the chart. "How accessible is your house? What kind of house is it? Do you have a bath or a shower? How many stairs are there until you reach your bedroom?"

Sherlock answered right away. "It's an apartment on the first floor, 17 steps to be precise. Bedroom is on the same level as everything else and there are a bath and a shower."

John didn't say anything. Sherlock was describing Baker Street as the house where he would return to like it was the most normal thing. He knew he couldn't avoid the subject anymore, knowing one of the next questions would be if Sherlock had any support at home. John made up his mind quickly. He couldn't leave Sherlock alone even if he wanted to. He could at least stay with him until he was feeling better. They would sort out the rest later.

Patrick wrote some things down. After that, he looked up from the chart. "Excellent. And can you move around freely?"

Sherlock nodded in response and Patrick bend over the chart again. "And do you have someone to take care of you at home, Mr. Holmes?"

John cleared his throat before Sherlock could answer. "That would be me."

"Ah Dr. Watson, that's great," Patrick said with a smile.

Sherlock looked at John, one eyebrow slightly raised. "But you don't live there anymore," he stated.

John was taken aback for a moment. How did Sherlock know that? Had Mycroft told him? But John realized soon enough that this was Sherlock Holmes, the man who could deduce a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. Of course, he knew. He shrugged. "I can help you settle and help you for a couple of weeks. And Mycroft can help as well, if necessary."

Sherlock looked like he was about to comment on that, but he didn't. Instead, he just shifted a bit and looked away.

Patrick put down the chart. "Okay, that's settled then. Let's move to the fun part, shall we?"

The physical therapist stood up and pushed his chair away. "I'd like to examine you first, okay? See what kind of strength you have left. Sit up straight for me, please."

Patrick did his examination and John was pleased to see that the strength Sherlock once had wasn't gone completely. The last thing John wanted was for Sherlock to be completely dependable at home. It would drive him crazy.

As the examination progressed, John noticed Sherlock got tensed more and more. His gaze was firm, focused and he didn't look up to Patrick or John once. His breathing was deep and steady as if he was doing a breathing exercise. John was about to ask if everything was all right when Patrick spoke again.

"Good. Now let's get you up and walking, shall we? Swing your legs to one side of the bed and sit up straight. Don't get up on your own, I will help you."

Patrick moved closer towards Sherlock and lowered himself to a kneeling position. Then, he swooped one arm under Sherlock's and tried to get him up on his feet.

"Stop."

Patrick looked up questioning and stopped moving. He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile. "I'm sure you will do…"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Let go of me." His voice was shaking and John saw the shimmer of fear across his face. This wasn't good. was scared, terrified even.

"Let him go," John commanded right away.

Patrick obliged and backed away a little, a little startled by the sudden turn of events. He stood up and looked at John questioningly.

John stepped forward and laid his hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked gently.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sorry," he stared. "I thought I could do this, but I… I can't. I need another therapist."

"Mr. Holmes, I can assure you I'm the best there is in this hospital. Don't let my…" Patrick defended himself. John cut him off with the raise of his hand.

"Why?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Because he's… He's a man."

"A man?" John repeated. But as soon as he said it, it hit him. A man. Sherlock didn't want to be touched by a man. John felt his insides contract. This was what he feared the most, what he was most afraid of. He knew Sherlock was tortured and abused. But John only could imagine what they had done to him in order to make him fear the touch of men.

It made John want to throw up. But he couldn't. This was not about him.

"Oh Jesus," he exhaled softly. He let go of Sherlock's shoulder and kneeled in front of the man. Sherlock opened his eyes by the touch of John's hand on his knee, but he didn't look up.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered.

John's heart shattered into a million pieces. He wanted to scream, to throw things, to punch someone. He wanted to say that Sherlock didn't need to apologize for anything, but he didn't trust his voice. All he could do was give Sherlock's knee a small squeeze.

After a long moment, Sherlock started to speak. "I don't have an issue with you, John," he managed to say. His voice sounded a little more steady now. "I know I can trust you."

John suddenly realized something. "Is that why all of the doctors and nurses were female? Did Mycroft know?"

"Yes."

There was another long pause. John watched how Sherlock tried to regain his composure. He closed his eyes again and took a couple of deep breaths. John didn't let go of Sherlock's knee, the warmth of his palm radiating through Sherlock's thin pajama pants in hope to give him some comfort.

"What if," Patrick started deliberately after minutes. "What if John was the one to help you? Would that be okay?"

Sherlock gave a small nod and John swore that could kiss Patrick for his suggestion. The man probably really was the best.

John cleared his throat and tried to sound as composed as he could be. "Okay. Let's get you out of this bed so we can go home."


	12. Strong Enough

**Chapter 12: Strong Enough **

_Baby when you're strong enough, strong enough_  
_Show me where the lights are off, lights are off_  
_Tell me how you feel inside, can't you let go now_  
_Baby when you're strong enough, strong enough_

_Strong Enough – Celine Cairo_

* * *

"We need to talk."

Mycroft looked up from his computer and furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of John Watson standing in the door opening. A quick glance told him that the doctor was angry, furious even. Normally, Mycroft would make a dismissive comment and send the person opposite him away instantly, but in the last few weeks, he had grown a new kind of respect for the doctor. The man seemed the only one who could help Sherlock get on the right track again and for that, Mycroft was immensely grateful to him. So the least he could offer in return was him treating the doctor as an equal.

Mycroft pointed to the chair opposite the desk. "Please, sit down."

John didn't. He closed the door and entered the room but remained standing. He had his fists clenched together tightly and was trying to keep his anger in control. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I think you need to be more specific Dr. Watson, as I have no idea what you are referring to."

"You know what happened to Sherlock."

Mycroft looked at John. Of course, he knew. He wished he didn't, though. The horrors his younger brother went through gave even him an unsettling feeling. He wanted to spare the doctor that. Even though Mycroft knew he had seen his own horrors, he really thought it would be best for the doctor not to know.

After a long moment, Mycroft spoke. "Are you sure you want to know?" he asked John. His voice sounded calm, almost sympathetic.

This startled John a bit. "Yes," He said fiercely, but continued right after. "No… I don't know." He let out a frustrated sigh and sat down in the chair.

"May I ask you how you came to the conclusion that I know?"

"He didn't want to be touched by his physical therapist and said you knew about that."

Mycroft nodded knowingly. "When he came back, he got violent when he was touched by the male doctor who wanted to examine him. He didn't want me to touch him either. I don't think me being a man was the main reason, though. But it didn't improve things."

John seemed to realize something and looked up questioningly. "Is that why Sherlock hit you?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered. He swallowed and tried not to show his emotions. Getting beaten up by his younger brother wasn't one of his best memories, although he couldn't blame him for doing so. "That's why I arranged female assistance instead of male. It was his own choice to take on a male physical therapist, though."

John ran his hands across his face. "I wish I'd known. I would've been more careful in approaching him. I wouldn't have invited Greg to come to see him. I would…"

Mycroft cut him off. "Nonsense. The fact that you didn't know and therefore didn't approach him differently made him feel he could trust you again right away, even after not seeing you for two years. You were one of the few people who, in his eyes, hadn't changed."

John stayed silent for a moment. He still couldn't get used to Mycroft letting his guard down sometimes, even if it was only a little bit. It made the anger he felt before ebb away.

"Listen, John," Mycroft started. "I understand why you think you want to know what happened. I could tell you the things I know if you really want to. But I do think you shouldn't hear it from me. Sherlock will tell you when he feels he can. In fact, I think he's already telling you things he wouldn't tell anyone else."

John sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right. I just wish I could help him more. Take some of the pain he's experiencing away to deal with it myself so he doesn't have to. "

Mycroft just nodded in answer. For a long moment, they just sat opposite each other in silence. Mycroft looked at the doctor. The man had done so much for Sherlock and never thought of himself. And even when was doing everything he could, he still wanted to do more for him. He cared for him, cherished him even. It was then that Mycroft realized that the words Sherlock had been referring to in his note as "unspoken", weren't unspoken at all. The doctor had answered them without knowing.

He decided not to mention anything for the moment and changed the subject. "Has my brother decided where he wants to go when he's being released?"

"Yes, Baker Street. I told him I will stay to help. At least for the first couple of weeks."

"Do you need me to take care of anything?" Mycroft offered.

"Honestly, I don't know. I haven't been to the apartment yet. I didn't know it was still my apartment until a couple of days ago." Mycroft couldn't help but notice the small flicker of sarcasm.

"I'll take care of it."

John looked up at Mycroft. "Thank you," he said. It wasn't just because of the apartment. It meant more than that, and both men knew it.

* * *

John arrived early at the hospital the next morning. In two days, Sherlock would be able to go home. Now that they had established that he would be coming back to Baker Street, John couldn't help but feel a little excited. It felt like they were finally on the right track to becoming themselves again. To be able to fix what was broken, even though John didn't know exactly what it was that was broken. It felt good to be alone with Sherlock once again, just the two of them. He was aware that there were still going to be so many things to conquer and that it would be a long and hard road to do so. But he knew they were going to survive it, together.  
He also knew he wanted to be there with every minor victory Sherlock had. Normally, he would go somewhere when Sherlock had his therapy sessions. The café across the street was the place where he tried to kill the time during the wait, just like he did yesterday. He didn't want to hover in the hospital during the sessions but did want to provide any comfort afterward if Sherlock needed any, so the café was the best place to be.  
But today, Sherlock had his last therapy session before he got to go home. Tomorrow he would get his last dosage of pharmaceutical GHB and if everything went well, he would be released the next morning. For some reason, John wanted to see him before the session and make sure he was doing fine, especially after the events that had happened yesterday. He wanted to reassure Sherlock he could do this.

When John arrived at Sherlock's room, he was surprised to see that the therapist was already there. He looked at his watch, but he was sure the appointment wasn't scheduled for half an hour. The therapist was talking with Sherlock, but it didn't seem like they had already started. When she saw Sherlock looking past her to John, she turned around and walked towards him.

"Doctor Watson, could I have a quick word with you?" the therapist asked and walked to the hallway. John shot a questioning look at Sherlock and followed her.

The therapist turned around to close the door and held out her hand. "I don't think I introduced myself properly. My name's Maggie. It's so good to finally meet you, Sherlock told me so much about you during his sessions. You really are his rock, you know?"

John didn't know how to respond to that. He shook her hand in answer. "Please, call me John. Is everything all right? I thought his session was later today."

"Oh don't worry, everything is fine," Maggie said and gave John a small smile. "He wanted me to ask you something before we begin. He knew you would drop by beforehand so he asked me if I could come a little early."

"Of course he did," John muttered. It didn't surprise him that Sherlock already knew he would come by.

Maggie's face grew a bit more serious. "John, Sherlock requested you in today's session. He wants you to know what happened but is afraid to tell you in person. He figured that if you were in this session with him, he could explain some things to you through me."

John blinked and raised his eyebrows. "He wants me to… what?"

"He wants you in the room during the session," Maggie answered calmly.

It took John seconds to realize what the therapist had said. "And you'll allow me in?" he asked in disbelief.

"Under some conditions, yes."

"Which are?"

Maggie looked at John for a moment as If she was trying to remember her own conditions. "You'll just sit in the back of the room," she started. "No questions, no response, no comments. You're only allowed to listen. If it's getting too much for you to hear, get out."

"Did you set those conditions, or did he?"

Maggie chuckled a bit. "You know him well."

John gave her a crooked smile, but it disappeared almost immediately when he realized what Sherlock had asked of him. He wasn't prepared for this. He needed time to think, to figure out how to handle the information. "I suppose I don't get the chance to think about this, do I?"

"I'm afraid not," Maggie answered in earnest. "He'll probably change his mind if you wait too long."

John sighed. "Of course. Leave it to Sherlock to ambush someone with this." He said and ran his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath to prepare himself what was about to come. "All right, I will join. It's not that I can say no to him anyway."

* * *

When John and Maggie entered Sherlock's room again, they went to their places right away. Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed and was fidgeting with the corner of the duvet. He felt nervous. He didn't look at John. He couldn't. If he wanted to do this, he needed to focus.

Maggie sat down as well in the chair opposite Sherlock. It blocked part of the view which was a relief. This way, he couldn't see John's face. He could pretend It was just him and his therapist.

"How are you doing today?" Maggie asked politely. It was probably just a question to break the ice. Sherlock took a breath.

"I'm okay, just a little tensed," he answered in honesty.

Maggie nodded. "That's understandable. Just take another deep breath and know that we can stop at any time."

"I know."

"Would you like to start with the summery-exercise we've been doing the last few sessions? See how far we can get?"

Sherlock looked past her at John, but John didn't look back. A rush of hesitation hit him and suddenly he doubted if this was a good idea. Maybe it was too soon, too quick. What if he couldn't tell him? What if his body decided to pull another trick, just like yesterday? What if it would be too much for him to handle?

"Sherlock, look at me," Maggie said in a friendly but demanding tone. His eyes snapped away from John. "Remember what I told you. Try to act like he's not here. There's nothing is going to happen that you don't want to. You are the one calling the shots today."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, took another breath and shifted a little so that John was out of his direct line of sight. It made it easier to talk. "Okay, I'm ready."

"Good. Start from the beginning. You don't have to go into detail. Just tell me what you want to tell me. Take your time."

Maggie's words were the encouragement that Sherlock needed to start this. "I started in Ukraine," he started hesitantly. "I went undercover in a Russian organization which was settled all over Eastern Europe. They were specialized in hacking and were preparing a big attack on some big European countries. If they would pull through it would mean the end of Europe as we know it."

Sherlock paused for a moment and looked down at his hands. He furrowed his eyebrows as if he was trying to remember something. "Everything went quite well for the first couple of weeks. But I noticed that they were discussing things about me. I overheard their suspicions against me. They were trying to track down my background and already knew I wasn't from Russia.  
I had to cut off every form of communication with the government before they would intercept my messages. I knew if I didn't, they would harm the people I cared about. That's why I went off the radar completely within the first month." His voice was completely even now. He wanted to explain this because he knew John probably had requested updates from Mycroft about his status. He needed John to know it wasn't a choice to go down on his own, but something he had to do.

"I was able to cause some delay by questioning their plan and suggest different things. They were starting to doubt their own plan, which was beyond my expectations. I even believe blew up the whole thing because of the chaos I caused.  
After a couple of months, I managed to gain some trust. That's when they told me hacking wasn't their only "business". They had a… niche. They wanted me to help build it further, expand it to other countries." Sherlock stopped talking. The hardest part was yet to come and he started to feel nervous again.

"What kind of niche?" Maggie asked. She sounded curious and Sherlock couldn't blame her. This was the first time he was going to talk about it. He had to. He wanted John to know.

"Prostitution. Male prostitution, to be exact."

There was a long, thick silence. Sherlock's heart started jamming inside his chest and he felt his hands starting to get sweaty. He could hear John inhale sharply and shift in his seat slightly but other than that, there was no response, for which he was grateful.

"Do you need to stop for a moment?" Maggie asked after a minute, her voice soft and encouraging. Sherlock knew she meant well, but if he stopped now he wouldn't be able to continue. He shook his head in response and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand. He took a sip and noticed his hands were shaking. When had they started to do so?  
He took the glass in both of his hands and lowered it into his lap. He closed his eyes and braced himself before he continued.

"That's when they decided to transport me to Mitrovica, Kosovo. I was about six months into my mission. When I arrived, I noticed that I had to deal with a different kind of people right away. They weren't happy with my arrival at all. It made them feel that they were being watched. They started to question me, wanted to know why I was there. I managed to keep up my façade for a couple of weeks. I discovered that most of their clients were rich businessmen from all over the world. People who weren't supposed to be in Kosovo at all.  
But before I got the chance to do something with that information, they decided I had to see what the business was like first-hand."

A shiver ran through Sherlock's body by the thought of it. He swallowed hard. "I knew things were going sideways and I didn't know how to stop it. I was infiltrated too deeply and couldn't see an out. So I was forced to do it. There was no other choice." His voice started to quiver. This was as far as he had come, but he knew he had to go further. He fought the urge to look up to John for support, knowing if he did he would break.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to get his voice sounding even again. "There were different stages," he started to explain. "First, I was the help. I had to clean the rooms, make sure there was enough equipment. After that, they let me be the host. I had to welcome the clients." He paused. "They'd let me watch sometimes, too," he added softly.

"Oh, shit."

Sherlock's head snapped up in the direction of John. It was soft, but he did hear him. It was too much for him to hear and Sherlock knew it. His body tensed and he tried to control his breathing, but a rush panic ran through his veins. This was going all wrong. He wanted to let John come closer, not to push him away.

"Sherlock, don't back down now," Maggie spoke suddenly. It almost sounded like a whisper. "You are doing great. He's not going anywhere."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and let some of the tension go. He knew she was right. John still sat in that chair. He was still listening.

"After two months, they decided I was ready." His voice sounded raw now, not quite his own. "They gave me my own clients. But in those two months, I had formed a plan. Before someone could do something, I was able to deduce my clients' darkest secrets and used it against them so I wouldn't have to have sex with them. Everyone has secrets."

Sherlock's whole body started trembling. "But of course, they found out. That's when it got ugly." His voice broke. "They tried to torture information out of me. I didn't give them any. Then, they decided to try different ways to force me to have sex. That's why they gave me the GHB." He let out a small huff. "It was the first time that being an addict had his perks. I had a high tolerance so I didn't pass out and was still able to stay conscious enough to fight back."

"How did you manage to escape?" Maggie asked with a trembling voice. It was hard to hear for her as well. Sherlock noticed it took her a lot of effort to speak. He knew she was trying to steer the conversation a bit.

He frowned. "I didn't. I wouldn't be able to escape, I was too far gone." But then, a sudden realization hit him. "I think I had a client who recognized me and who contacted the government."

Maggie shifted a little closer. "Sherlock, you did so well. I'm so proud of you for sharing this. You know I have to ask you one last question, right?"

Sherlock couldn't find his voice anymore. He gave a small nod as an answer.

"Did they, at any point, succeeded in trying to force you to have sex with someone else?"

"No," he whispered.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes."

And suddenly, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to continue anymore. He broke. His body started to shake involuntary, he started to feel dizzy. He tried to take deep breaths but was gulping for air now. He didn't know how to regain control anymore as blind panic struck him.

He didn't hear the soft encouragement from his therapist. He didn't hear the shifting of the seat in the far corner of the room. He didn't hear his footsteps approaching. But when he felt an arm wrapping around him, Sherlock knew it was John. he pressed it against him and hold on tight. Relief rushed over him. John was still there.

After long minutes, Sherlock noticed John's unsteady breathing. For the first time, he looked up at the man, who looked down at him and gave him a glimpse of a smile. Tears were pooling from his dark blue eyes, but he didn't seem to care. John pressed Sherlock closer against his chest.

That's when Sherlock swore he would never let go of John Watson ever again.


	13. Guiding Light

_A/N: Merry Christmas, everyone! As always, I really love to hear your thoughts, especially after the last couple of chapters. We are finally on the road to recovery! So, I'm asking Santa to ask you guys to leave a comment behind :)_

**Chapter 13: Guiding Light**

_Well I know I had it all on the line  
But don't just sit with folded hands and become blind  
'Cause even when there is no star in sight  
You'll always be my only guiding light_

_Guiding Light – Mumford & Sons_

* * *

It was a cold and rainy day, but Sherlock didn't care. The moment he was wheeled outside the hospital felt like he was set free. He stood up from the wheelchair Mycroft had insisted on using to get him outside and breathed in deeply. He was finally going home.  
He had intended to go home yesterday, but doctor Wilson insisted on keeping him one extra night just to be safe. He could've jumped high and low, but Mycroft and John stood firm, which did not benefit his already fickle mood and resulted in an evening full of bickering and arguing, just for the sake of arguing. But now the moment was finally here, he felt nervous.

He hadn't anticipated going home ever again. He hadn't dared to hope to come back to his apartment, to go back to his life like it was before. But now, he was given that opportunity for the second time in his life. And it was terrifying.

John came to stand next to him and Sherlock felt a light hand on his shoulder. "Ready?"

Sherlock could hear the smile on John's face, which was enough to let some of the fear fade away. He realized that it was all because of John. This man was the reason he was able to go home again and for a moment he hesitated to tell John everything. To tell him how he felt, to tell him about what he wanted to say when he had to leave him, to tell him about the letter. But Sherlock composed himself almost immediately. Now was not the time nor the place. Besides, it was too risky anyway.

Sherlock nodded, closed his new Belstaff coat he got Mycroft around his body, put his collar up and took his first steps outside towards the black car that waited for him and John to take them to Baker Street.

They were silent during the ride. Sherlock couldn't help it but to look outside the window and stare at the buildings and people. He was back in London, the city he knew from the inside out. And for the first time, he felt grateful to be back.

He looked over at John, who was looking at his phone and was typing. Sherlock wanted to ask who he was texting but hesitated. A year ago he would give John a smart-aleck comment about it, but somehow he didn't know if it was his place to say something about it. He continued to look out if the window instead.

After 20 minutes, they were almost at Baker Street. Sherlock sat up straight and started to unbuckle his seatbelt. "Stop the car," he ordered the driver, who stopped right away.

John immediately looked up from his phone. "What? Why? Are you feeling okay?" he asked with a hint of panic in his voice.

"I'd like to walk the last bit."

"What, in this rain? Are you insane?"

Sherlock turned to John and glared at him. "You don't have to come with me. I'll meet you at home."

John closed his jacked and huffed. "Of course I'm coming with you. I always do."

He thanked the driver and followed Sherlock, who had already stepped out of the car and was walking down the street. The familiar image struck John. Although the detective didn't walk as fast and confident as before, seeing him in his long, Belstaff coat striding towards 221b made that John couldn't stop smiling the whole time.

* * *

The night went on quite uneventful. Once they were home, they started to settle in. John let Sherlock do his own thing, which meant he was cataloging every corner of every room. John made some tea and once Sherlock was done roaming around the house, they sat down at the kitchen table together, just enjoying each other's company.  
Mrs. Hudson was so glad 'her boys' were back that she insisted on cooking a proper meal and have dinner together. She had made a delicious pasta and chatted freely with John about nothing in particular over a good glass of wine. Sherlock didn't say much during the dinner but enjoyed listening to the stories Mrs. Hudson had to tell. It had almost felt like before.

Around 9, John and Sherlock excused themselves, thanked Mrs. Hudson and went upstairs. Sherlock told John he was tired from the day and went to bed early. John couldn't blame him. He wanted to go to bed as well but knew that If he would, he would just lay there and stare at the ceiling for hours.

But with Sherlock gone to bed, 221b Baker Street started to feel strange. Mycroft had taken John's request seriously and made sure the apartment was clean, well-stocked and completely the same as before, but it still felt like everything was different. John tried not to let his thoughts linger and started to read a book. But after an hour he couldn't focus anymore. He stood up and lit up the fireplace, walked to the cabinet and was pleased to see that Mycroft even had stocked the liquor department. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and walked back. He hesitated for a moment. He had been avoiding his old chair since he arrived back at Baker Street. Somehow it didn't feel right to sit in it anymore. He sat down on the couch instead.

If someone asked him two weeks ago if he thought he would ever return to Baker Street, he simply would've laughed and waved it away. Now, he sat in the middle of the living room of his old apartment with his old flatmate in the bedroom next door. His flatmate, who was supposed to be dead.

And for the first time, John allowed himself to feel the impact. Everything he had heard Sherlock tell the other day fell on him like a heavy weight. He felt the pain, he felt the sorrow. But most of all, he felt injustice.  
John took a sip from his whiskey and looked into the fire, letting the thoughts about the last couple of weeks roam in his mind freely. And suddenly, another feeling struck him. Admiration. Because yet again, Sherlock started to manage to come back from this. John knew it cost him a lot this time but in the end, Sherlock would win again. And that was just the thing that John frightened the most.

"Are you all right?"

John looked up from his thoughts and saw Sherlock standing in the door opening. He was dressed in pajama pants, a navy blue t-shirt and a new dressing gown which looked a lot like the ones he had before. Another thing that almost looked the same as it did before, but wasn't.

John waited for Sherlock to walk towards him and sit in his chair. He didn't. He lowered himself to the couch to sit next to John with difficulty.

John didn't look at him. "I feel like I should be asking you," he said with a sad grin on his face.

"You've already asked plenty of times. I'm asking you now."

A moment passed. John knew Sherlock was trying to deduce what was going on and he let him. He was just too tired to explain his thoughts to his friend.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said softly.

This took John completely by surprise. He looked at Sherlock, who was avoiding his gaze and looked at his hands. "You don't have to apologize for anything?" he asked after a moment.

"I do. You are in this position because of me."

John shook his head. "You didn't put me into anything. I chose to be here."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "If things are getting too difficult, you can go. I can't ask you to stay. I'll manage."

"What makes you think I want to go?"

"I can see you struggling."

"That doesn't mean I would leave you and deal with this by yourself," John countered.

Sherlock didn't respond right away. He really didn't want John to go, but he had caused him enough pain already in the past. He couldn't do that to him anymore.

"You should," Sherlock said softly after a long moment. "This is hurting you."

"I'm perfectly capable of setting my own boundaries, Sherlock."

"John, just admit it."

John started to get frustrated. He turned his body to Sherlock stared at him for a moment in disbelief. "Where is this coming from?"

Sherlock just shrugged. "Since I told you what happened, you aren't talking to me like you did before. You are watching your words. That, and you are texting more often these last couple of days which means you don't want to be here. It's quite obvious."

"Okay, stop it right there," John exclaimed. Sherlock winced at the raise of his voice, but John didn't seem to notice. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me you want me to."

John stopped for a moment and realized he was practically yelling. He tried to regain his composure. "Do you?" he asked after a long silence.

"No," Sherlock said quickly.

"Good. Listen," John continued. "Don't apologize for what happened. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. You didn't do anything. This wasn't a choice. This is something that happened to you. Am I making myself clear?"

Sherlock didn't respond. John took a breath and reached out to take Sherlock's hands in his. He felt Sherlock tense but he didn't let go.

"Please, look at me," John urged. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock looked up into John's dark blue eyes. His heart skipped a beat. Their eyes locked onto each other and Sherlock relaxed a bit. He had missed those eyes. He had missed the look John gave him like nothing there was nothing else in the world. Even though everything pretended to be the same but felt completely different, this feeling he got when he looked into those eyes was the one thing that hadn't changed.

"I won't pretend everything's fine," John continued, his voice much kinder and softer. "It's not easy for me to see you like this, to hear what happened. It's damn hard. But please, don't hold back because of it. I'm so proud of you for telling and for asking and it would break my heart if I noticed you were holding back because you think I can't handle it. Mycroft asked me to come with him, he didn't force me to. I chose to. And I'm so glad I did because by some kind of miracle It got me here."

After a long silence, Sherlock spoke. "I thought I wouldn't be able to see you again."

His voice was barely audible and broke at the end, but John heard it loud and clear. He let go of Sherlock's hands and pulled him towards him. "Me neither," John whispered, closing his arms around Sherlock's back.

Sherlock raised his own arms and pulled John closer. "I'm happy you chose to come with Mycroft as well, John," he mumbled against his shoulder.

John pulled back for a moment, taking in the man opposite him. He took a deep breath and continued. "Did I ever tell you that you were the one who saved me? When I met you, I mean. You were the main reason I recovered after Afghanistan. Ella did a great job, but it was you who helped the most. Please, let me do the same for you."

"Okay," was all Sherlock managed to say.

John pulled him back in their embrace and didn't let go. And Sherlock didn't want him to. The feeling of John pressed against him was the most comforting feeling he could have right now. Knowing that John still was here after everything that had happened and everything he told him was something he couldn't wrap his mind around. But then again, John always managed to surprise him.

They sat there for what felt like minutes. John knew it longer than was appropriate, but it was what they needed at that moment.

When he did let go of Sherlock, it felt like a loss. Both men weren't able to look at each other and shifted their gaze to the burning fireplace.

After several minutes, Sherlock spoke again. "John? Can I confess something?"

"Of course."

"I'm afraid to sleep alone."

John nodded understandably. "That happens with PTSD," he simply answered. It all sounded too familiar. "You know I slept with the radio on the first couple of months when I returned from Afghanistan? The whole night I would listen to boring talk shows so that I got the feeling someone was there in case I would fall asleep. It made me feel a little less alone."

"I will keep that under advisement," Sherlock answered, his voice suddenly more distant. This clearly wasn't the thing he wanted to hear and John noticed it too.

"Don't be an idiot Sherlock, you aren't alone." he chuckled.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and looked at him questionably. John stood up and reached out his hand towards the tall man. "Come on, let's get to bed. You must be tired. At least I am."


	14. Catch Me If You Can

_A/N: first of all... I'm so sorry for the delay! A lot happened and I didn't have the time to sit down and write a proper chapter for you guys... But don't worry, I'm back! And on the plus side, I started to plan out the rest of the story, so I expect to update more frequently now!  
Second: thank you for all the comments and kudos! I love, love, love to hear from you guys, so please feel free to leave something behind!_

**Chapter 14: Catch Me If You Can  
**

_Take me by the hand_  
_Take me by the hand_  
_But please don't want to know me_  
_Cause I'm a little bit scared of life_  
_And vulnerable is all you need_  
_To know, so play pretend, play pretend_  
_Oh, won't you play pretend?_

_Catch me if you can – Walking on Cars_

* * *

John woke up with a long arm wrapped around his chest and a head full of curls on his shoulder and he couldn't suppress a smile. It was the best possible feeling in the world. He knew he had to get up soon, or at least shift away before Sherlock would wake up and noticed their new sleeping arrangement, but he allowed himself to lay in Sherlock's arms for a moment longer. The heavy weight of his arm felt comfortable and the familiar smell of Sherlock's expensive shampoo was soothing. God, he had missed that smell.

This was the third morning in a row John had woken up like this. After Sherlock told him he was afraid to sleep alone John had decided it would be best to sleep in the same bed and it was the best decision he had made so far. Not only did he get the chance to be close to Sherlock and keep an eye on him, but Sherlock had slept like a baby from the moment they laid in bed together.

Every night started the same. They lay down together, a decent amount of distance between them. John read some articles from one of the medical journals he had bought and Sherlock just lay down on his back, staring at the ceiling. The first time he did that, John had wanted to ask what he was thinking about if everything was alright. But when he cast Sherlock a glance, he saw him drifting off slowly with a small smile on his face, completely relaxed. With Sherlock gone, John turned the lights off and went to sleep as well, only to wake up the next morning with the detective firmly pressed against him.

With a sigh, John decided it was time to get himself out of Sherlock's embrace and get up before the detective would wake up. He shifted a little, turned on his side facing Sherlock and took the hand of the detective and tried to put it on the pillow next to his head. This had worked quite well the previous mornings, but when John tried to pull his hand away so he could get up he noticed that Sherlock somehow got a grip of John's hand. John expected Sherlock to wake up right after, but he didn't. He tried to free his hand, but Sherlock wouldn't let go. The only thing he could do was lay down and wait for Sherlock to wake up.

John took a long, good look at the sleeping man next to him. Sherlock's features were soft and relaxed, his mouth a bit open. It made him look years younger and John wished that there was a way he could always see him like this, so at peace and unguarded. He was beautiful. Even after all these years, after all these battles and wars Sherlock had fought he was the most attractive man John knew. He would give anything to run his hand through those dark curls, to caress his sharp cheekbones, to kiss…

Johns's train of thoughts was abruptly disturbed by two silver-blue eyes looking into his own. He hadn't noticed Sherlock was awake and suddenly it felt quite hot. For how long had he been staring? Could the detective deduce what he was thinking about?

John tried to regain his composure and cleared his throat. "Morning," he said softly, trying to keep his voice under control.

Sherlock didn't respond right away. His face was still open and relaxed, the corners of his eyes wrinkled slightly as he gave John a small smile. "Good morning, John."

"Did you sleep well?"

A yawn overtook Sherlock before he could answer. John smiled back at him. "I take that as a yes."

"I did. You?"

"Yes, thank you." Suddenly, John was aware of the fact that he and Sherlock were still holding hands. "Uhm… Sorry," he stammered and pulled his hand away. For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Sherlock's face. Before he could say something, John got up from the bed. "Coffee?"

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable. "Yes, please," he answered, his voice much softer than John had anticipated. He decided not to dwell on it and walked out of the bedroom.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sherlock sat on the sofa and was staring outside the window, his cup of coffee forgotten between his hands. He listened to the of the newspaper John was reading and sighed.

These last couple of days were so peaceful and quiet that they made him wonder if he was finally on the right track again. He even dared to say he was starting to feel better. His recovery went quite smooth, he didn't have so many dark thoughts and flashbacks as before and living again at 221B Baker street was comfortable. And the best part was that John was there to keep him company. Sweet, caring, brilliant John, who gave Sherlock everything he needed at this moment without being overly concerned. A comforting hand on his shoulder, a reassuring smile, a warm embrace, he provided everything without question.  
John had been there from the moment he knew Sherlock was back and had never left his side since. And during that time, Sherlock had noticed a change in John's behavior. Earlier, he would keep things at a distance, hold back on the touches and apologize or excuse himself if he felt like he had invaded on Sherlock's personal space. But now, he was more comfortable around Sherlock than he had ever been.  
Sherlock had expected that all of that would fade away once they returned at Baker street, but the opposite was true. It even felt more natural between the walls of their old apartment than at the hospital. He knew that it all was temporary and that John would leave him to go back to god knows where, but he didn't seem to be preparing to leave anytime soon.

And then, there was their new sleeping arrangement. Obviously, Sherlock had noticed their closeness during the night. He didn't mind in the slightest. In fact, it was the only way Sherlock managed to fall asleep. It felt comforting to have John so near to him, knowing that there was someone who kept an eye on him. He really had tried to keep his distance the first night. But when he woke up the next morning, his body pressed close against Johns, he felt so utterly relaxed that he decided he didn't care if John knew.  
John clearly tried to keep Sherlock under the impression that they were sleeping separately by pulling himself away when he woke up and leaving the room before Sherlock would wake, but this morning Sherlock wanted to know what John would do if he couldn't leave. So he had grabbed John's hand. He expected John to try to pull his hand back, but he didn't. Sherlock had anticipated that John would get angry with him for invading his personal space, but he didn't. Instead, he had given Sherlock one of the warmest smiles he had ever seen.

It all made him wonder. Could it be that John felt the same about him?

Suddenly, his vision was blocked by John who was looking at him in concern. "What?" Sherlock asked, his voice a little raspier than anticipated.

"There you are," John said. "I was saying we should leave in 10 minutes." He narrowed his eyes a bit. "Are you all right? I told you about four times but you were completely lost in your own thoughts."

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied a little too quickly.

"What were you thinking about?"

The somewhat playful tone in John's voice didn't escape Sherlock. But he couldn't say what he really had been thinking, so he came up with an excuse. "About today's session," he answered eventually.

John's face grew more serious. "Do you want me to be there? I could wait outside the room instead of going to the café?"

"No need." Normally, Sherlock would've meant to sound snappy, but he couldn't. Instead, he gave John a hint of a smile. "It will be okay."

"Good. Come on, let's go." And there it was again, another reassuring smile and a comforting hand on his knee. Sherlock felt the warmth of John's touch radiate through his trousers, even if his hand was already gone. And suddenly, Sherlock knew he couldn't play this game anymore. It was all or nothing. After today's session, he would tell John about the way he felt, about the letter, about everything.

* * *

There was nothing left of the peaceful morning they had shared once they got back from the hospital that afternoon. The first couple of appointments had gone well. Dr. Wilson seemed to be happy with Sherlock's recovery, they had made an appointment to remove the cast from his arm and Patrick also seemed pleased with the progress Sherlock was making. His last appointment of that day was another session with Maggie. John was surprised to notice that Sherlock was in quite a good mood when he entered her office. But from the moment Sherlock walked out of the hospital, he had gone silent.

At first, John was concerned. He knew the cab ride wasn't the moment to ask what was going on, so he didn't speak as well during the ride home. But when they got back at the apartment Sherlock walked straight to his bedroom and closed the door with a loud bang, leaving John standing in the middle of the room, startled.

John decided to give Sherlock a moment before asking what was going on. He walked to the living room and sat in his chair with his book. He was surprised to see Sherlock come out of his room 10 minutes later. He didn't look up, but his attention was on Sherlock's movements. Sherlock stood still in the middle of the room at first, but when John didn't react he sat down in the chair opposite John.

"All right?" John asked after a moment. Sherlock didn't respond. After another minute of silence, John looked up from his book and took a good look at Sherlock. There was something about Sherlock John hadn't seen often before. He expected another difficult conversation, another reveal about what had happened to him. But something in his attitude told John this was about something else. There wasn't a sad look or a guarded expression on his face. No, Sherlock seemed genuinely nervous about something.

"What's going on?" John tried.

Sherlock looked down at his hands and took a deep breath. "We need to talk."

"Okay," John answered, confused. "What do you want to talk about?" The words sounded more harsh than intended and John saw Sherlock flinch a little in response.

John regretted the words immediately and tried to adopt a more friendly tone. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" He paused a moment to take a breath. "You can trust me," he added.

Sherlock's head snapped up. "I know," he immediately responded. Of course, he trusted John. He trusted him implicitly. But he was about to risk everything. "it's just… hard," he mumbled.

John gave him a small, reassuring smile. "It's okay. Take your time."

Sherlock looked down at his hands again and fumbled with the sleeve of his robe. John wanted to take his hands and tell him there was no need for him to be this nervous but he knew If he did that he would scare Sherlock away, so the only thing he could do was wait.

After a long silence, Sherlock suddenly spoke again. "Do you remember our goodbye at the airport?"

John swallowed, a rush of nerves ran through his own body. He suddenly had an idea of what was coming. He knew what Sherlock was going on about. The letter. How was he supposed to react? He couldn't say he knew because than Sherlock would know he kept it from him. But he also couldn't react surprised. The only right response was to come clean about his own feelings. "Of course," he managed to say, his voice a lot more strained than before.

Sherlock noticed it too and looked up for a second before returning his gaze downward. "Well, there… I've wanted to… I'm…" The words got stuck in his throat and he let out a frustrated sigh. Why was this so hard?

"Sherlock?" John managed to say. His voice was barely a whisper. He moved forward a little and placed his hand on Sherlock's knee. "It's okay. Just tell me what you want to say."

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes and felt a little less nervous. The look on John's face was so open and full of adoration that he again wondered if John felt the same about him. He was close, very close. He searched for some discomfort in John's face but didn't find any. He licked his lips before whispering. "There were some things I wanted to say back then. I…"

But before Sherlock could continue, he heard footsteps on the stairs. He narrowed his eyes and cleared his throat. "Lestrade's here."

John looked utterly confused. "What?"

The knock on the door pulled both men back in reality. Lestrade came in without waiting for an answer. He looked ravished. His hair was a complete mess and he had dark circles under his eyes, his face serious and tensed. John was alert at once. This couldn't mean much good.

"You need help," Sherlock said before John could ask what was wrong.

"I do, we've got a problem. We got different reports of people within our police force who were threatened in the last couple of days. The threats were serious enough for us to start an investigation, but there had been a development. "

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "The one who sent the threats is following true."

Lestrade nodded. "Two of the victims were kidnapped. We have reasons to believe he is torturing them."

John felt something clench his stomach. This was not the kind of case Sherlock could be handling right now. He raised himself from his chair and stood up straight, hoping to catch Lestrade's attention to signal this wasn't a good idea, but he didn't have much luck. John swallowed. "What reasons?"

Lestrade sighed and took his phone. He looked down at it for a brief moment before opening the sound file.

The screams and sounds were horrifying.

There was a long, thick moment of silence. None of them knew what to say.

"Could It be fake?" John tried against better judgment. He already knew the answer.

"It isn't," Sherlock answered. With that, he stood up from his chair, rushed to his bedroom and closed the door with a bang, leaving John and Lestrade behind

They stared at the door for a long moment and John hesitated on what to do.

"I'm sorry," Greg began. "but I'm completely out of my league here. If I could I would go to someone else, but we are grasping at straws here. We need to act quickly."

"I know," John sighed and ran his hands across his face. For the first time since they went on cases together, he wished Sherlock wouldn't take the case. It would be too much to handle, John was certain of it. He knew he should tell Lestrade they would help him, but he couldn't.

Without thinking, he walked towards Sherlock's bedroom. He knew what he was about to do was wrong, but he couldn't care less. He was going to try to talk Sherlock out of it.

He opened the door to the door to Sherlock's bedroom without knocking and entered. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bad and was tying his shoelaces. One quick glance was enough for him to know what John was going to say. "Don't," he said and stood up to face John.

John visibly braced himself. "Sherlock, I think this isn't a…"

"I said don't," Sherlock snapped.

"But…"

Sherlock interrupted him before he could finish his sentence. "No. I'm going. End of discussion." He walked past John and was about to walk out of his room when John spoke quietly.

"Sherlock, please."

This made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks. John never asked, never begged. He turned around and walked up to John. He sighed and tried to find the right words to convince him. "Listen," he started in a softer voice." I have to prove to myself I can handle this. Do you understand? I have to do this. I know it's hard for you to understand, but it's something I need to do." He looked down at John and gave him a small smile. "You know it would be a lot easier for me if you would join me, don't you?"

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment. "Fine," he managed to say before Sherlock spun into action.

He rushed out of his bedroom, yelled at Lestrade they would take a cab and be right behind him, took his Belstaff coat and his scarf from the coatrack and rushed out of the door. He was already halfway the stairs when he turned around. "Come on, John!" he bellowed before rushing down.

John stood at the top of the stairs and sighed. He knew this was not a good idea, at all. For a moment, he hesitated and tried to think of a last-minute excuse to keep Sherlock from taking this case. But he couldn't. He didn't have the heart to do so. Instead, he did the only thing he could do.

He followed Sherlock and hoped for the best.


	15. You Say

_A/N: Okay, there are a couple of things I like to say to you guys. __First of all, I'm so sorry for the delay. It feels like an excuse, but there was so much going on that needed my attention that I couldn't find the time or the energy to write a chapter for this fic. I'm still absolutely, 100% committed to this fic, but it just felt hard to write such a serious fic with so much going on. That's why I focussed on Teach me ABC for a while; it's a little more light and breezy than this one (for the time being). But I still love this fic, and I'm not going to abandon it!  
__Second, I'm not entirely happy about this chapter. But I really wanted to write something for you guys. You have been patient and waited long enough.  
__Last but not least. THANK YOU so much for all the kudos and comments, again. You really are the best, and it really makes my day. So I make you a deal: I will try to update as soon as possible, and you write me a comment. Sounds good, yeah? And I promise I won't let you wait two months again (pinky promise!) _

_I hope you all are save and that you won't let the lockdown get the better of you. 3_

**Chapter 15: You Say**

_I keep fighting voices in my mind that say I'm not enough_  
_Every single lie that tells me I will never measure up_  
_Am I more than just the sum of every high and every low?_  
_Remind me once again just who I am, because I need to know_

_You Say – Lauren Diagle_

* * *

New Scotland Yard hadn't changed a bit. The tall, white building still had the same stately appearance as before, and the sign was still standing proudly at the entrance. The reception and the hallway hadn't changed much as well. Well, the only noticeable thing was that they had repainted the stairs somewhere over the last year but other than that, everything still looked the same.  
There was another thing that hadn't changed. The moment Sherlock exited the taxi, the game was on. He rushed out of the cab, let John pay for the ride and entered the building with his Belstaff coat flapping behind him. He followed Lestrade through the building, his head held up high and eyes full of focus. John had to hurry to keep up with the detective. It felt like old times, like before. The only thing visibly different was the cast around Sherlock's, but John knew better.  
Sherlock's pace was a bit slower and more deliberate, his face tense, and his teeth clenched. He was in pain but didn't want to show it. He tried to hold up his previous façade of the cold, untouchable detective, while he actually wasn't ready for this. And maybe that was the thing John worried the most. Sherlock would to everything not to show what he had been through, and it would break him in the end. And John just had to stand there and watch him do it.

From the moment they entered Lestrade's department, John tried to push his unsettling feeling aside and decided to focus on the case. But it took only a couple of seconds before the officers noticed who walked in. John felt how everyone turned their heads and how every eye was on him and Sherlock. The conversations fell quiet and made way for some soft whispering. John narrowed his eyes and looked around. He had forgotten the lack of decency of most of the Yarders. The man was going to help the Yard to find their criminal, probably catch him single-handedly, and they were just staring at Sherlock like some kind of surreal thing.

"I can't believe it. It's the freak."

It was barely a whisper, but John heard it loud and clear. It made his skin crawl with anger. He clenched his fists and set his jaw, ready to defend Sherlock in any way needed. He waited for Sherlock to fire a snarl, but he didn't say anything.

For a brief moment, John wondered if he hadn't heard anything if he didn't notice the glares. But when he glanced over at Sherlock, he saw him close his eyes briefly and swallow before entering Lestrade's office, and John's heart sank. Not only had he heard, but it also hurt him.

It took John every bit of willpower to ignore everyone instead of speaking up, but he knew it wasn't what Sherlock wanted him to do. So instead he squared his shoulders and followed Sherlock and Lestrade inside.

Lestrade closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. Before John would take place opposite him, and Sherlock would stand so he could pace around like he always did. This time, Sherlock walked over to the chair and sat down, trying to hide the painful grimace that threatened to show on his face. John immediately walked closer and stood behind him, protectively.

"All right," Lestrade started. "The victim's name is Tom Brandon, 41 years old. He lives in an apartment in the city centre, no wife, no kids. His family lives in Manchester. He's a police officer for 17 years, came to our department two years ago when he moved from Manchester to London. We believe he was taken last night since he didn't show up to work this morning."

"How many threats have there been?" John asked.

"Four, so far. It looks like the suspect is choosing his victims beforehand."

"When was the first threat received?"

"Around two and a half weeks ago. At first, officer Brandon didn't mention it. But when the second threat came, it became clear it was a bit more serious than he anticipated."

"And how did they receive the threats?"

"They got a call. We tried to get phone records and track down the phone, but the phone that was used was a prepaid and only used once."

Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. "There has to be a connection between the threats."

"That what we thought, but so far we didn't find any."

Sherlock snorted. "And you're sure you checked everything?"

"Yes, we did."

"You checked their email, texts, their social media accounts, their contacts?"

Lestrade sighed. "Yes, of course."

"You interviewed them, friends, relatives, colleagues?" Sherlock asked. He didn't wait for an answer but stood up and started pacing across the room, clearly not paying attention to the conversation anymore.

"Yes, Sherlock, we did. Nothing came up."

"Did you have contact with other departments? Other police stations? Maybe they received threats as well?" John tried.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, other departments didn't get any." He paused for a moment and sighed. "And we don't want to check with other police stations, trying to avoid a lot of commotion. But as far as I can tell, there were no other stations who received threats."

"So it's random?"

"Looks like it."

"It's not random!" Sherlock snapped suddenly. "It's never random!"

John raised his eyebrows and looked at the detective for a moment. "But it could be?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and gave John a look which John recognized right away. Sherlock thought he was acting like an idiot. "Is officer Brandon the last of those four who joined your team?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then I need every case file from all of the victims from the last two years at Baker Street, stat."

"What, from all four of them?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.

"Obviously."

"Sherlock, that's insane." John interrupted. "There's no way we can check all of those files just to see if there's a small connection."

"And I need you to bring their electronic devices. I'm sure you missed something. You always miss something."

"Sherlock," John warned, but it was no use. He knew Sherlock was probably right to question the thoroughness of the investigation Lestrade and his team had done, but he also knew it would mean Sherlock wouldn't stop digging for a connection until he had found it.

Sherlock ignored John for the second time. "And I want to visit the victim's apartment. John, let's go. I refuse to wait until the fine officers of the Yard are free to accompany us. I will see you there, Lestrade." He didn't wait for the other two men to move and walked to the door.

Lestrade spoke before he could leave. "What, you want to visit the apartment now?"

Sherlock turned around and narrowed his eyes. "Really, Lestrade. You are even slower on the uptake than before. Please, don't bother me with that sluggish brain of yours. Come on, John!"

John gave Greg an apologetic look and followed Sherlock.

* * *

He knew the cab ride to Brandon's apartment would be a short one, but it gave Sherlock a moment to let his guard down a bit, to catch his breath. Although he didn't want to admit it, he was in pain. His ribs hurt like hell, the muscles in his back were tense, and the remains of his collapsed lung made it hard to catch a proper breath.  
It had been tough to be back at the Yard. He tried not to get affected by the stares and the whispers, to be the person he was before he went to Eastern Europe. And in Lestrade's office, he tried to be on top of his game and suck in every bit of information Lestrade had to offer. But in result, his head was spinning from all the things he had heard. He knew it would probably be better to go to the apartment tomorrow, but he needed to push through. He needed to know he could do this, that he still was the same. He couldn't back out already. All he needed was a moment to recollect himself.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock sighed. Of course, he couldn't fool John. He had stopped trying to fool John the moment John had set foot in his hospital room two weeks ago. "I don't know," he answered in honesty.

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered shortly and continued to stare out of the window in hope to avoid a conversation. The last thing he needed was a lecture from John. He knew John didn't agree to this in the first place. Maybe he was right.

To Sherlock's surprise, John didn't say anything. Instead, he fumbled around in his pockets. "Here," he said and held out a strip of painkillers. "Sorry, I don't have any water with me."

Sherlock turned his head to look at John and felt a rush of warmth through him. The look John gave him was a look of determination, not of pity or disapproval and Sherlock could kiss him right there and then. To make sure he wouldn't, he took the strip from John. "Thanks," said and popped two pills out of it.

John just gave him an answering smile and turned back to the window to stare out of it, and Sherlock did the same, his mind buzzing.

It took five more minutes before the cab arrived at the apartment of Tom Brandon. With a little difficulty, Sherlock stepped out and walked up to the main entrance of the building and waited for John to enter as well. Together, they walked to the elevator and took it up to the third floor.

They entered the small two-room apartment, and both men started to look around. It was clear Brandon lived alone. There was a small kitchen with a dining table and two seats, a living room with a couch with a tv and a bedroom with a single bed in it. It was clear Brandon had been not too long ago. The bed was unmade, and there were dirty dishes in the sink.  
From the first look, there wasn't much to see. Sherlock started to look for clues, for any trace he could use.

"Take a look at this," John said after a couple of minutes and held out a piece of paper, which appeared to be a photo. Sherlock took, looked at it… and froze. There was a man in the picture, on his knees, his arms tight behind his back, bruises clearly visible. His back was turned towards the camera, and his head hung low. He was held gunpoint.

John waited for Sherlock to comment, but there was no response. "Sherlock?" He tried, but he didn't get an answer. He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed, but that also didn't seem to snap him out of whatever was going on inside his head. He cursed inside himself. He should've known that this photo would trigger something, that it would be hard to see. He should've kept it from him and handed it over to Lestrade.

It would be a matter of seconds before Lestrade and his team would enter the apartment. John knew he couldn't let the whole team see Sherlock like this. Lestrade was one thing, but the rest of the team wouldn't understand what was going on and would trigger the wrong things. He made a decision. "I'll be back in a sec," he said and walked away from Sherlock to the front door. He stepped outside and closed the door, just in time to keep Lestrade from entering the room.

"He needs a moment, Greg."

Lestrade didn't miss the urgency in John's voice. "Of course," he answered with a nod.

Behind them, the footsteps of sergeant Donovan tapped on the staircase. "You can't be serious," she started while climbing the last couple of stairs. "The freak just shows up after a year, and you're already giving him privileges?"

"Sally," Lestrade warned her.

"No, sir. He doesn't get to barge into the Yard after a year of absence and take over the case like it's nothing. We don't need him."

"We do need him to get some answers. And If that means needs a couple of minutes to get those, I'm more than happy to oblige."

"This is unexceptional. How do you even know he's not going to walk out again and let you deal with the crap he leaves behind?"

"Shut up," John hissed through clenched teeth. He desperately tried to keep his anger under control. "Do you have any idea why he was gone? What happened?"

Donovan glared at John daringly and narrowed her eyes. "I don't have to. I know his moves, I know what he's up to. And I will not fall for that again. Once a freak, always a freak."

"Donovan," Lestrade intervened, his voice firm. "That's enough. I'm still your superior, and I still call the shots here. And if I hear you question my decisions once again, I'll kick you off the case, understood?" He turned to John. "You should go back inside. I can give you 3 minutes."

Although John desperately wanted to punch Donovan in the face, he knew Lestrade was right. He gave Lestrade a small nod as a thank you and turned to head back.

Sherlock hadn't moved. He still stood in the middle of the room with the photo in his hands. When John got closer, he noticed Sherlock's hands were shaking. "Sherlock?" he began softly. But Sherlock didn't answer. He just looked down at the photo, completely lost in his own thoughts.

John decided now wasn't the time to ask what was wrong. He walked up to him, placed a gentle hand on his and took the photo out of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock looked up at him, a hint of panic clearly visible in his pale blue eyes. "Come on," John whispered.

He guided Sherlock to the window and opened it. Sherlock immediately leaned into the fresh air, took a deep sigh and tried to slow down his thoughts. For a moment, they just stood there, letting the cold air fill their lungs and clean their heads.

"John," Sherlock said after a moment. His voice was a bit hoarse, and it clearly took him a lot of effort to form his next sentence. He frowned and looked down at their hands. John's hand was so close, so easy to reach. But he didn't dare to seek the comfort he needed without asking. He swallowed and tried to get rid of the raspy feeling that had settled in his throat. "I need you to tell me you think I can do this because I'm starting to think I can't."

John didn't respond right away. "I don't think you can do this," John said softly, and for a second Sherlock thought he had lost John's faith. But the doctor took a deep breath and continued. "I know you can. But if you want to stop, if you don't want to do this, then that's okay. I'll support you anyway." He reached out his hand and placed it over Sherlock's.

The gesture on its own was so small, but it made all the difference in the world to Sherlock. He let out a breath and felt his body relax a little. The fact that John would be there with him no matter what was all he needed. He didn't hesitate anymore, grabbed John's hand and squeezed it softly.

The sound of the click of the door handle made them both jump, quickly letting go of each other's' hands and turned to the door.

"Tell me you got some theories, Sherlock," Lestrade asked right away.

It took John a moment to recollect himself, but Sherlock had already put on his game face and sprung into action. "Three, so far," he answered and started to walk across the room. "The kidnapper is a man, or are multiple men, that much is obvious by the size of his clothing. A woman could not be able to overtake him. There isn't any sign of struggle or resistance, so I believe he wasn't taken from here."

"We also found-," John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Fibers of some kind," Sherlock said quickly. He eyed John for a moment, hoping John would get the message to not mention the photo. "Probably from an item of clothes the kidnapper wore when he got inside."

"I thought you said he wasn't taken from here?" Lestrade asked.

"He wasn't," Sherlock answered impatiently. "But someone has been here after the kidnapping," Brandon clearly wasn't a smoker, but there is fresh tobacco ash near the window in the bedroom. Marlboro, by the smell of it."

"How can you tell?"

Sherlock just glared at Lestrade. After a second, he looked over at John. "Let's go home, John. We've got some files to check."

* * *

From the moment they got home, Sherlock threw himself entirely on finding a connection between the four victims of the threats. John tried to help as much as he could, but Sherlock made it clear he was more of a burden than a help and snapped at him every time John thought he had found something. When he suggested Sherlock should take a break and eat something, he got the 'my-body-is-just-transport' and 'food-slows-down-my-brain' speech he knew all too well, together with some comments on how he shouldn't hover and how he should just get out of the way.

By eleven o'clock, John had had enough of it. "Sherlock, you need to stop. You need to take care of yourself. You need to eat, and you need to sleep."

"No."

"You know your body can't handle the stress right now. Come on, take a break."

"No."

John used his last resort. "Sherlock. Now," he said in his Captain-voice.

This made Sherlock look up from his files. He narrowed his eyes and calculated his options. After a second, he seemed to come to a conclusion there weren't many. Looking around, he grabbed the nearest takeaway box and shoved a spoon full of noodles into his mouth. "Happy?" he hissed after swallowing his bite.

John shook his head in defeat. "Please come to bed somewhere this night, okay?" he asked, but Sherlock just glared at him in answer. John sighed, took his phone and went down the hallway to the bedroom.

Halfway up, John felt his phone buzzing in his hand. With a sinking feeling, he opened the text and read it.

_"We need to talk. Now."_


	16. Demons

_A/N: The chapters keep getting longer and longer, but there's just so much stuff to write about! The struggle is getting real with these two... I really hope you guys like this chapter! I worked my butt off to get this one up, haha. Let me hear your thoughts in the comments! Hope everyone's still safe and healthy! _

**Chapter 16: Demons**

_When you feel my heat_  
_Look into my eyes_  
_It's where my demons hide_  
_It's where my demons hide_

_Don't get too close_  
_It's dark inside_  
_It's where my demons hide_  
_It's where my demons hide_

_Demons – Imagine Dragons_

* * *

John's night was a constant battle between sleep and being awake. For the first couple of hours, he had laid down in bed, staring at the ceiling and hoping Sherlock would come to bed soon. John had been incredibly wound up because of the text message he got earlier that night. He knew that he would have to face it sooner or later and that he had to text back in the morning, but he could guess what it was about though.  
Once he had accepted there was nothing he could do about the text in the middle of the night, his mind went in overdrive with worrying about Sherlock. John knew he was starting to lose the little control he had. Small cracks were beginning to appear in Sherlock's façade, and it would be a matter of time before the detective had to give into it. He was fighting a battle with himself, and he would lose either way. And the worst part was that there was nothing John could do to help. The only thing he could do was to be there for him and to support him in any way he needed, which didn't feel enough at all.

Around one, John suddenly woke up from a restless slumber. His first instinct was to reach for Sherlock, but his hand didn't find the comforting warmth he was searching for. He opened his eyes, pushed himself up and stared at the empty pillow next to him. John ran his hands across his face. He knew Sherlock was probably still downstairs going through the files, or that he was in his mind palace reminiscing about the case. He also knew he had to try to get him to sleep, and that wasn't an argument he wanted to have in the middle of the night.

With a sigh, John sat up and let his feet touch the cold floor. Now that he was awake properly, he couldn't shake the angry feeling that was starting to creep up. He knew Sherlock always took his body for granted, but he had hoped that after being in the hospital for almost three weeks, he would be a little more cautious. The man knew better than to eat two bites and stay up all night, especially if he was demanding so much from his weakened body. But being back at Bakerstreet apparently also brought back old habits.

John reached towards the nightstand to turn on the light and stood up from the side of the bed. He listened, but he couldn't hear Sherlock downstairs. Softly, he walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

The faint light of the fire they had made that evening lit the room, but besides that, it was completely dark. John expected Sherlock to sit in the middle of the piles with files, but he was surprised to find Sherlock laying on the sofa, his back towards the room. He walked a bit closer to see if Sherlock was awake, maybe somewhere deep inside his mind palace. But when John bent over him to see his face, he was even more surprised. Sherlock seemed to be asleep, quite soundly actually. A wave of relief ran through John's body, and his anger subsided. He was glad to see Sherlock wasn't fighting against it, at least not tonight.

For a second, John thought about waking Sherlock up so he could get some more sleep in a proper bed, but he decided against it. He reached for the blanket that lay over the armrest and pulled it over Sherlock's sleeping form. John's hand stayed on the man's shoulder for a moment, and he had to fight the urge to run his hand through the thick, dark curls.

When he realised he was lingering a bit too long, John took a step back and looked across the room. It was a mess. There were files across the floor, half-drunk cups of tea on nearly every surface and empty cardboard takeaway boxes had taken over the coffee table. He knew he wasn't going to get back to sleep now, so he started to clean a bit of the mess.

As quietly as he could, John began to pick up the cardboard boxes and threw them in the trash. After that, he took some of the cups that lay around. Sherlock suddenly stirred, and John stopped in his tracks, afraid to have woken Sherlock. But Sherlock just jostled around, still sound asleep.

John walked to the kitchen with the empty cups, placed them in the sink and decided he would clean the rest tomorrow. He put the kettle on, waited for the water to boil and poured himself a cup of chamomile tea hoping to catch his sleep again.

With his cup of tea in his hand, John sat down in his chair and stared into the fire. For minutes, he just sat there, occasionally sipping his tea. For the first time in what looked like ages, his mind felt pleasantly blank and peaceful.

Suddenly, the quiet was disrupted by a soft moan. It took John a moment to register what he had heard. But when he heard it again, he was alert instantly. He knew those soft whimpers like nobody else. Those weren't moans out of pleasure, but out of discomfort, fear and pain.

He put down his cup quickly, looked at the sofa and although he only could see Sherlock's back, John immediately knew what was going on. Sherlock was having a nightmare.

He was moving uncontrollably, every muscle in his body tensed, the grasp on his blanket so hard his knuckles where white. When John stood up, he could see the tiny drops of sweat on Sherlock's forehead. He was mumbling unintelligible; his face scrunched up in a hard grimace.

"Sherlock?"

When he got no response, John walked over to the sofa. "Sherlock, wake up," he tried again.

Sherlock didn't wake up. Instead, he started moaning louder, clearly in distress. His movements became more violent; his eyes squeezed shut tightly. He began to mumble again, and this time, John could make out some words. "No, please…" Sherlock whimpered, and John felt his heart tighten in his chest. "Not him… Me… Not…"

Tears were starting to form on Sherlock's cheeks, and John couldn't take it any longer. "Okay, Sherlock, listen to me. It's time for you to wake up. Now!"

He reached out to grab Sherlock's shoulder without thinking, which was a mistake. The detective suddenly started to thrash around with his arms, and his arm with the cast on it hit the left side of John's cheek hard before he could dodge it.

"Shit!"

Sherlock woke up abruptly and sat up with a jolt. He looked around in fear, eyes searching for something he could recognise. His first thought was John. He needed to know John was okay. He was shaking, his breath was ragged, and he could feel the strains of tears on his cheek. But that didn't matter. He needed to find John.

John ignored the pain he felt on his cheekbone and kneeled next to the sofa. He leaned forward so Sherlock could see his face, hoping to get his attention. "It's okay, you're okay," he spoke, desperately trying to keep his voice steady while he hid his painful grimace. "You were having a nightmare. Whatever you were dreaming, it's not real."

With that, Sherlock finally registered John properly. He let his eyes roam over his face, as a rush of relief overtook him. John was here, alive and well.

Suddenly, Sherlock realised what was going on. Nothing was real; he just had had a nightmare… It felt incredibly real, though. He screwed his eyes shut tightly and reached for his cheek with a trembling hand to wipe the tears away. He was gulping for air, fighting to keep the memories of his nightmare at bay, to not slip back into the horrible flashbacks that had disturbed him.

John gave Sherlock a moment to regain his composure a bit. It broke his heart to see Sherlock like this. He knew what it was like to wake up from nightmares, being someone who had fought a fair amount himself. But to see someone like this, so utterly frightened and scared was hard. He swallowed hard before he started to whisper. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate and gave a small nod. He needed to feel John needed to make sure nothing had happened to him. There was a soft rustling on the floor, and Sherlock heard John shift closer. He wanted to place his hand on Sherlock's knee, but Sherlock didn't give him a chance. He let himself fall forward against John's shoulder, into his strong arms which wrapped around him immediately.

They sat like that for minutes. John was whispering comforting things into Sherlock's ear, one hand stroking his back, the other placed in the nape of his neck. Sherlock listened to every word. They kept him from falling back into the darkness. He started to calm down a bit.

He was safe. John was safe.

After a second, Sherlock backed away a bit, a new wave of uncertainty overcame him. His eyes roamed over John's face again, searching for something. He still needed reassurance. Sherlock looked into John's eyes questioningly, and John understood.

"I'm fine. It was just a dream."

And with that, Sherlock let himself fall into John's embrace again, not letting him go for the rest of the night.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when he heard John coming down the stairs. "Good morning, John," he greeted, not looking up from the article he was reading.

John groaned. "Coffee. I need coffee," he yawned, walked towards the cupboard and took a large mug from it. Sherlock could tell he didn't have much sleep by the way he moved around the kitchen.

He suddenly felt a little guilty, realising he was the reason John hadn't slept well. When they finally got upstairs last night, it was nearly three o'clock in the morning. They went to bed in silence, but John had known precisely what Sherlock needed. He had taken the detective in his arms and had pressed him close against his chest, not caring about the fact they had pretended their sleeping arrangement was a secret to the other. Sherlock was gone immediately, but that was only because he knew John would watch over him, which he apperantly had done at the expense of his own sleep.

John sat down with a steaming mug of coffee. He took a sip and sighed, clearly enjoying the moment. He gazed over at Sherlock. The man looked terrible. His skin was even paler than usual, dark circles underneath his eyes clearly visible. He also seemed more skinny than he was when he got out of the hospital, which worried John.

"Were you able to catch any more sleep?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A bit."

"Good, that's good."

John knew it wouldn't do any good to question Sherlock's state right now. Besides, he was still too sleepy to argue with the detective. He finished his coffee in silence, and Sherlock picked up on his article. They just sat there at the kitchen table, enjoying each other's company.

After a couple of minutes, John stood from his chair to get a refill and make some breakfast. Sherlock quickly reached for his cup and held it out to John to grab it, still not looking up from his newspaper.

John snorted in response but took the cup anyway. "You could get your own coffee, you know?" he said while he turned his back to fill the two cups.

"Why would I get my own coffee if I know you are going to take a refill anyway?"

John held out the cup in front of Sherlock and couldn't hide a smile. "Git."

Not missing the fondness in John's voice, Sherlock looked up from his newspaper for the first time. He opened his mouth to reply, but his eye caught the bruise on John's cheek. He raised his eyebrow questioningly, but John just sat back in his chair. Sherlock waited for an explanation, but nothing came. "John," he finally said to get the doctors' attention.

"Hmm?"

"What happened?"

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock gestured at John's face. "That," he replied impatiently.

John didn't reply immediately. He just stared at Sherlock and blinked. "You don't remember?" he asked eventually.

Now it was Sherlock's time to look puzzled. He noticed the deliberate tone in John's voice and the slight shift in his posture, but he couldn't place it.

John sighed. "You were thrashing around right before you woke up last night," he explained, carefully choosing his words. "You threw in a pretty good punch; I think my yell was what woke you."

It felt like a punch in the gut. Though Sherlock didn't want to believe he was capable of hitting John, he knew it was true. He could recall the moment he woke up from his nightmare. He didn't know what had woken him exactly, but he knew there had been a shout that wasn't his own. It made sense.

"Sherlock? Everything all right?" John asked when he saw the shift in Sherlock's face, but Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. He had hit John. Maybe not on purpose, but his subconscious had seen him as a threat, and his instinct had been to fight him off. He had hurt John while he had tried to help him.

John watched him with concern and knew he had to do something to prevent that Sherlock would blame himself for hitting him. He reached across the table to grab Sherlock's hand, in hope to get his attention.

"Hey, it's okay," he said softly and waited for Sherlock to look at him. "It doesn't hurt that bad. Plus, I should've known better than to touch you," he continued and gave Sherlock's hand a soft, reassuring squeeze. "Rookie mistake."

Sherlock didn't reply. He withdrew his hand from John's grasp and let his head fall, unable to look John in the eye any longer. He knew what John was trying to do, but he wouldn't let him. This was his fault.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, finally in a small voice. Before John could attempt in another way to try to comfort him, he stood up from his chair and walked over the living room.

With a loud thump, Sherlock let himself fall on the floor. John would come after him like he used to and make a desperate attempt to lighten the situation. But Sherlock didn't allow himself to listen to him. He shut himself off from everything else around him, took one of the files and started to focus on the case entirely.

* * *

Hours passed, and although John didn't want to admit it, he was starting to get frustrated. Sherlock hadn't spoken since this morning, had decided he could go another day without food and ignored John completely. At first, John had tried to make clear that it wasn't Sherlock's fault, but it was no use. Sherlock had decided he wouldn't forgive himself for the upcoming time and had thrown himself on the case.

John had decided to answer the text from last night, which resulted in a frustrating back-and-forth to get to an agreement. Eventually, he had proposed to meet up this afternoon so he could discuss everything face-to-face instead of over the phone. By the time he had settled on a time and place, he was pacing across the room, feeling agitated.

His rescue had been a call from Lestrade. The second victim, Caleb Austin, had been missing for two days now, which his neighbour had noticed eventually. He was graduated from the police academy in September and had just started working at New Scotland Yard. He didn't have much family living in the city and didn't have a partner or housemate.

When Sherlock and John arrived at the crime scene, Sherlock still hadn't spoken a word. He walked straight inside and ignored John completely. John walked after him but stayed behind. He was reluctant to go inside, knowing he would only stand in the way when Sherlock was like this. He spotted Lestrade and Donovan and decided it would be best to check what they had found instead of going inside.

"Oi, don't you look awful today," Donovan commented when John walked over towards her and Lestrade.

"Hello to you too."

"I meant your cheek. Quite a bruise you've got there."

"Oh, I uhm…" John stammered. "I hit the door of the cupboard in the kitchen when I was cleaning this morning. No big deal."

Donovan narrowed her eyes. "That must've hurt. It looks like someone got in a good punch."

"Sally, enough," Lestrade warned. Donovan backed off immediately and decided to check on the crime scene, leaving her boss and John behind.

"John, is everything okay?" Lestrade asked when she was out of earshot.

"I'm fine Greg, nothing to worry about."

"Are you sure? You look like shit."

John shrugged. "Haven't slept much."

"Yeah, John, listen," Lestrade began, and John knew what was coming. "I know it's none of my business, but you don't fool me. I know when someone is punched in the face when I see it. What happened? Did Sherlock did this?"

"No. Well, yes. But it's not what you think." John explained and he watched how Lestrade raised an eyebrow at that. "We had a bit of a rough night. He was having a nightmare, and I grabbed his shoulder just when he started thrashing around. It was an accident."

Lestrade eyed John for a moment before he seemed convinced. "Okay, that explains a lot. And how is he holding up?"

John snorted. "Well, you just saw him, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Lestrade sighed.

They stood in silence for a minute. John looked at the floor, unable to shake the helpless feeling he started to feel. "I think," he spoke after a while and ran his hands across his face. "I think I'm out of my league here. I thought I could handle everything, but it just feels like I'm losing control. And I absolutely hate it."

Lestrade was about to say something when Sherlock stormed out of the house. He walked past Lestrade, didn't wait for John and walked to the street to hail a cab.

John shot Greg an apologetic look before he walked after the detective.

* * *

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock threw himself on the floor again immediately and hastily started rustling through some files. John stepped inside and closed the front door of the apartment with such a loud bang that it made Sherlock look up at John for the first time in hours. He narrowed his eyes and took the soldier in. He was angry; his knuckles white from the tight grasp of his fist, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight.

"I've had enough," John hissed through clenched teeth as he tried to keep his anger under control. "You are acting like an annoying five-year-old, and I'm sick of it! You can't continue like this. Ignore me all you want, but I will not stand here and watch how you are neglecting your body. I know you don't want to admit it, but you are drained from last night. Hell, I'm exhausted, let alone you. You are going to sleep, and after that, you are going to eat a proper meal."

"I'm not tir-,"

"Don't even start," John interrupted loudly. "You fell asleep in the bloody cab. I had to wake you. Twice!"

"That was just because…"

"It's not up for debate, Sherlock. You are going to rest. I don't care if you're going to lay down on the sofa or decide to crawl into bed. Hell, for all I care you just lay down on the floor. But you are going to take a break. Doctor's orders."

"But the case…" Sherlock tried, but he knew it was no use. The only thing he got in return, was a furious glare.

"Sherlock, I warn you. I will call Mycroft."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut again. He knew this was an argument he couldn't win. They stared at each other, waiting for the other to say something, but nothing came. After a minute, Sherlock admitted his defeat, stood up from the floor and walked over to the sofa.

John started to move as well, and for a second, Sherlock had the hope he would lay down with him. But John just turned around to grab his keys again.

"Where are you going?"

"I have an appointment downtown, so I'll be gone for an hour or two. You better be sound asleep when I get back."

Sherlock listened to how John walked down the stairs and closed the front door behind him. He knew John was right; he did feel exhausted. Besides, it would be incredibly foolish of him to ignore John's orders. He lay down on the sofa with his back towards the room and closed his eyes, hoping to catch some sleep.

It was no use. Sherlock stirred and turned, but he couldn't keep his mind from racing. First, he thought about last night, his nightmare still easy to recall. He had been back in Mitrovica, where he had been standing with a man kneeling before him. The man had his back turned to him. Sherlock had held a gun in his hand and knew he had to shoot the man… It wasn't as much of a nightmare than a memory, and he knew he had to tell John about it eventually.  
Then, there was the case. There had been a second kidnapping, much to Sherlock's frustration. Again, there wasn't much to find at the apartment of the victim. The only trace Sherlock had noticed besides some fingerprints, was the faint smell of Malboro cigarettes and another photograph of someone who had been tortured. He knew he had to tell John about the photo's as well, but he wasn't sure how John would respond.

After an hour, Sherlock started to feel desperate. He really, really wanted to sleep. He turned, switched sides and turned again, but it only made him feel more anxious.

When John came back, he was in an even more foul mood than before. His conversation didn't exactly go as he hoped, and it had started to pour just when he got out of the tube. He did his best to get inside as quietly as he could.

Sherlock shot up. "I tried John, I really did," he almost pleaded before John got the chance to say anything. "But I just can't sleep."

John looked at Sherlock. He noticed the desperation in his voice and felt his anger subside a little. Sherlock really had been trying; he could see that. It wouldn't be fair if John would hold it against him. Also, he really didn't have the strength anymore to argue with Sherlock again.

"All right, move up a bit," John finally said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly, but when John walked over to the sofa, he did what he was told. John sat down at the far and gestured Sherlock to lay down again on his lap. Sherlock did, and after a second, he felt one of John's hands on his shoulder. He finally was able to relax a bit and closed his eyes.

John sighed and let the tension he had been holding all day glide from his shoulders. He briefly hesitated before he put his other hand in Sherlock's hair and started to fumble through it gently.

They stayed like this for minutes, and John was almost sure Sherlock finally started to fall asleep when he suddenly started to speak.

"When I was in Mitrovica, I had a companion," Sherlock said softly, not moving from John's lap. He felt how John's hand briefly stilled and how his body tensed before he continued stroking through the thick curls. Sherlock took a deep breath and continued. "His name was Visar, or that's what he told me at least. He was already undercover for two months before I arrived and knew I wasn't who I claimed to be within a week. We teamed up and decided to exchange information."

"In a way, he reminded me of you. We protected each other and took care of each other in the best way we could. But of course, they found out he was a spy a month and a half after I met him. That was the first time I saw what they were capable of. They captured him and tortured him. Ultimately, they decided to kill him. They had noticed we started to become close, so they…"

Suddenly, Sherlock was aware of the tears that were burning behind his eyes. It was hard to talk about this, but he had to. He had to give John an explanation.

"Made me pull the trigger," he finally whispered. "I couldn't see him, but I knew it had to be him."

"Oh, Sherlock…"

Sherlock turned his head to look up at John and swallowed. "It was you… Instead of Visar. That's what I was dreaming last night."

John didn't move. He felt foolish. Sherlock had been going through something today, and here he was, yelling at the man for not taking care of himself and threatening him with his big brother if Sherlock didn't go to sleep. Once again, he was utterly amazed at how much strength Sherlock showed by telling him this. And at the same time, it hurt like hell to hear these things, especially when John couldn't do anything about it.

All of a sudden, Sherlock sat up straight. "I couldn't find out why I was having this particular dream, but I think I figured it out." He reached for his pocket, pulled the two photographs out of it and handed them to John.

"I believe that the man in those pictures is Visar."


	17. Way Down We Go

_A/N: Please believe me when I say I have not abandoned this story! I just got stuck in a major writers' block. Sorry! But now, I'm back. So if you are still sticking with me, please let me know! It really keeps me motivated. _

**Chapter 17 - Way Down We Go**

Oh, 'cause they will run you down, down 'til the dark  
Yes and they will run you down, down 'til you fall  
And they will run you down, down 'til you go  
Yeah, so you can't crawl no more

Way Down We Go – Kaleo 

* * *

The waiting room of a hospital always was a strange place to be. Whether it was because somebody was hoping to receive good news, or expecting to get bad news, people were still a little anxious for what was about to come. It didn't matter if you were waiting with ten people or, in this case, had the waiting room for yourself; there was always this energy around. And even though he was a doctor, John couldn't shake it.

He glanced at Sherlock, who was sitting beside him. He actually didn't seem that nervous, which surprised John a bit. But then again, he had to admit that the last two days had gone quite well. Sherlock hadn't argued with him every step of the way, he'd accepted to rest in the afternoon (although they were disturbed after half an hour by a call from Lestrade), and John had even managed to get him to eat a meal or two. If anything, he maybe was a bit quieter and more absorbed in his thoughts, but that didn't strike John as an odd thing in Sherlock's behaviour.

John's mind stopped racing abruptly when two piercing blue eyes looked directly at him. John gave Sherlock a small, comforting smile, although he hated to admit it maybe was more for himself than for Sherlock. The detective pleasantly surprised him by giving back a little, private smile, but it was only there for a second. After that, his smile faltered. John didn't miss the pained, confused expression he had when he turned away. He was about to ask what was wrong, but he was interrupted by Sherlock's name being called.

They walked down the hall to the office and were greeted by Dr. Wilson. "Mr. Holmes, it's good to see you again," she said and shook his hand. When she stepped aside to let them in, she gave John a small nod as a greeting.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Wilson asked when the three of them sat down.

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at his hands and started fumbling nervously. "I'm doing okay," he finally answered.

"How's the pain?"

"Manageable."

"Any difficulties with breathing? Movements that are discomforting?"

"No."

Dr. Wilson paused briefly to type some things down on her computer before she continued. "All right, let's continue with the examination, shall we?"

The examination was quick. Within no time, Dr. Wilson had taken a look at the incisions, had checked Sherlock's lung capacity and heart rate, and had taken some blood to check the levels. She asked another couple of questions, and soon after that, she seemed satisfied.

John couldn't help but notice that all the questions focused on the aftercare of the splenectomy and the bronchoscopy. He wondered if she was deliberately avoiding questions about how Sherlock was coping with the withdrawal. And if so, why?

"All right, everything seems to go as well as expected. If you don't have any questions, you're free to go. Try to take it easy for a couple more weeks, okay?" Dr. Wilson spoke gently before she turned her gaze towards John. "Dr. Watson, I want to have a quick word before you go, please."

This took John completely by surprise. "Oh, uhm… Sherlock has another appointment to get his cast removed. Is it possible to do it over the phone?"

"I'm afraid it isn't. I'm sure Mr. Holmes will be fine by himself. It won't take long."

John was about to argue with that, but Sherlock interrupted. "It's fine, John."

Dr. Wilson stood up from her chair, walked to the door and poked her head outside briefly. "Linda, could you bring Mr. Holmes to the plaster room so his cast could be removed? Thank you." She turned to Sherlock and waited for him to rise from his seat. She held out her hand. "I'll see you at our next appointment."

John watched as Sherlock nodded, shook Dr. Wilson's hand and walked out of the office without sparing John a glance. Something in his posture told John that something was going on; that he wasn't doing well, and he had to fight the urge to go after Sherlock, instead of staying behind.

"All right, what did you want to discuss?" John started impatiently. The sooner they could get this over with, the better.

Dr. Wilson walked back to her side of the desk and sat down, but didn't start right away. She waited and seemed to consider her approach carefully. After a moment, she gave John a small smile before she started speaking. "How's Sherlock doing? From your perspective, I mean?"

There was something in the way she asked the question that made John want to defend himself, and Sherlock, instantly. "I think he's doing the best he can at the moment. His pain is manageable; he's mobile enough to take on a case. He's sometimes struggling, but that's expected."

"Dr. Watson, can I give you a piece of advice?" Dr. Wilson asked, her tone deliberate. She put her elbows on her desk and stapled her fingers under her chin. Something in her posture reminded John of Mycroft. "From one doctor to another?"

John shrugged. "Sure."

"It's time to take those blinders off and start acting like a doctor instead of a loved one."

"Excuse me?"

"Sherlock is not doing okay. He's exhausted, lost weight and he obviously isn't feeling well. I think you should be able to see that as a doctor, but I'm afraid your judgement is clouded."

John sat up straight in his chair and took a moment to reflect upon what Dr. Wilson was saying. How dare she suggest that he wasn't able to see what was going on? That he didn't act as a doctor when it came to Sherlock? That he was jeopardizing Sherlock's health? He tightened his fists to keep his anger under control. "That's quite an accusation you are making, especially when you don't know what he's like and what he needs. Believe me; I'm doing the best I can."

"If this is doing the best you can, your best is clearly not enough. I'm warning you, doctor Watson. You need to step up your game. If you can't, I need to admit him." Dr. Wilson glared at him for a moment. "And we both know how much fun it would be for everyone involved, don't we?"

John opened his mouth to comment on that, but luckily he realized in time that he was out of his league here. He knew that if he pushed, she would have Sherlock admitted in a heartbeat. And suddenly, he realized that maybe she was right to do so. That didn't mean he had to like it, though.

After a long silence, Dr. Wilson sighed and ran her hands across her face, dropping a bit of her rigour with the gesture. "Listen, I usually would've taken action by now. But I think he's better off at home than in the hospital right now, so I won't proceed. I'll schedule an appointment in two weeks. If he hasn't improved by then, I'm afraid you aren't giving me any choice."

"Fine," John managed to answer through gritted teeth.

"I'll ask Linda to point you to the plaster room so you can meet him there," Dr. Wilson suggested as she slid back into her composed self.

"No need. I'll find him myself."

"As you wish."

John didn't bother to give her a proper goodbye. He stood up straight in his military posture, turned around and walked towards the door with firm steps.

"Dr. Watson," Dr. Wilson spoke before John could exit the office. "I know it may be a little hard to believe right now, but we are on the same team here." 

* * *

From the moment Sherlock and John were able to leave the hospital, the tension was palpable. They had stepped into the car in silence; both men didn't spare a glance towards the other. John took out his phone and Sherlock turned himself towards the window. He was twisting and bending his wrist absent-mindedly, wholly caught in his thoughts.

They were halfway on their way back to Baker Street when Sherlock's attention was driven to the quick typing of John's fingers on his phone. He turned a bit and looked at the man next to him properly. Something had caused a sudden shift in John's state of mind, something Sherlock hadn't been a part of. The doctor was sitting straight up in his seat and was all tensed up; his jaw clenched, his face set into a familiar stern frown.

With a sigh, Sherlock sat back against his seat and resumed glancing out the window. He knew that if he asked John what was wrong, he would tell Sherlock that it was nothing and would wave it away. And if Sherlock was honest with himself, he also knew why John avoided him. Because the reason for him to feel like this would revolve around him.

Sherlock glanced sideways again and let his gaze slide down to the quick swipe of John's thumbs. Suddenly, he realized he had seen this particular scene before over the last few days. He had caught John texting multiple times, almost always caught up in some heated discussion. On occasion, Sherlock had wanted to ask who John was talking to. But every time he almost did, he averted.

He was afraid of the answer he might get.

The car stopped with a jolt, and John stepped out of it immediately, slamming the door shut with a loud bang. He opened the door of 221B, walked up the stairs at a fast pace and entered the apartment. Sherlock couldn't do anything else than to follow reluctantly.

"You are upset," he started once they were both inside the apartment.

John stopped in his tracks but didn't turn towards Sherlock. "Obviously," he replied, his voice clipped.

"With me."

John didn't respond. He didn't have to. Sherlock already knew he was. He waited a moment for John to speak up, but when it was clear the doctor wasn't going to, he started his deduction.

"You were fine this morning, so something happened in the hospital, probably during the removal of my cast. Dr. Wilson has scolded you, perhaps because she thinks I'm lying about my progress or because she thinks you are not giving me the proper care. Possibly both."

John turned slowly towards Sherlock. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, and Sherlock knew that wasn't a good sign. "You are. Lying about your progress."

"I'm doing fi—"

"Don't finish that bloody sentence! You are not. Doing. Fine!"

The loudness of John's voice made Sherlock flinch involuntarily, and John immediately felt guilty. His first reaction was to walk towards the detective and apologize, but he saw Sherlock twitching when he made a move. Instead, John let himself fall on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair and took a deep breath to calm himself a bit.

"I don't see why you value her opinion so much, John," Sherlock tried.

John looked up briefly before running his hand down his face in defeat. "Because she's right, Sherlock," he started, his voice muffled. "I am not doing the best I can, because if I was, I would make you listen to me and force you to take better care of yourself. I would make you rest, eat and sleep."

Sherlock looked down at John but didn't move. He couldn't. The words John just said, ran through his mind like a siren. For the first time, Sherlock noticed what was really going on. He was going through a hard time, but John was blaming himself for it. And he could not let that happen.

So he decided to do the only thing he could do. He needed to solve this case, fast.

When Sherlock suddenly started moving, John looked up. It took him a moment to process what the detective was doing. He had tossed himself on the floor in the middle of all the files and started rustling again, and John felt his anger rise once more. "For God's sake, Sherlock, just lie on the couch for an hour like any other recovering patient would do!"

"I can't do that, John. I can only rest after I solve the case. The sooner I solve it, the sooner I can let you hover over me. That's what you want, right?"

John snorted in disbelief and threw his hands in the air. "That's not what I- You know what, never mind. I'm not having this discussion again."

"Please don't; it's tiresome," Sherlock mumbled, his thoughts already on the case again. "It would be better if you put your frustration and energy into helping me solve this case."

John just looked at the detective for a long moment, unable to decide what to do. A part of him knew that he shouldn't give in to it; that he shouldn't give Sherlock what he wanted. But then again, John also knew the man was right. The faster they'd solve the case; the faster John could make sure Sherlock would strengthen. 

* * *

For a couple of hours, Sherlock's focus was completely on the case. His attention only slipped for a moment when he heard footsteps on the stairs, but he quickly deduced who it was.

Lestrade opened the door of the apartment without knocking. "Here are all the files Austin and Brandon worked on together. There weren't many cases, but maybe you'll find something we didn't."

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock answered without looking up. He reached out his hand and waited for Lestrade to give him the files.

"I don't see what it could be, though," Lestrade tried while he handed Sherlock the folders and looked around. "It was only three cases, all minor offences. There isn't a connection between- Sherlock, what are those?"

Sherlock looked up in confusion. "What?"

Lestrade held up the two photos Sherlock had stolen from the crime scenes and Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

"Pictures, obviously. Don't be so obtuse, Lestrade."

"I can see that. Why do you have them?"

"I just happen to have them in my possession," Sherlock snapped. He jumped up to his feet and reached forward to snatch the photos from Lestrade's hand, but he was too slow. The DI was looking at him suspiciously and Sherlock knew that the DI was smart enough to connect the dots.

"These are related to the case, aren't they?" Lestrade asked after a moment and sighed. "Please don't tell me you're withholding evidence again, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine, I won't." He let his gaze fall back to the file, but he couldn't fight the panic he was starting to feel. Now would be a good time for John to step in. Where was he, anyway?

Sherlock let his eyes roam around the living room in hope to catch John's eyes, but he didn't have any luck. He quickly scanned the kitchen and listened to know if John was upstairs, but John wasn't there either. He took another look around the living room, noticing that John's coat wasn't there. John was gone. Had he been so caught up in the case that he hadn't heard John leave?

"I can't believe this," Lestrade exclaimed and Sherlock's attention snapped back at him. "In all those years working with you, I thought you would have learned by now that there are some lines you simply cannot cross. Stealing photos from a crime scene… I thought you'd learned!

"Oh, please. Stop overreacting. My apologies, it won't happen again."

It was a desperate attempt to play is cool but Sherlock knew he was had gone too far. He hadn't missed the low, threatening tone Lestrade's voice contained; a tone that was never directed at him, at least.

"You think I'm overreacting? You are withholding evidence, Sherlock! That's not a minor detail someone can overlook; that's an actual reason to fire someone! Hell, it's a crime, even! You know better than this! And even if you would think that, for some bizarre reason you would be justified to do this, John would know better!"

"John has nothing to do with this," Sherlock replied too quickly. He knew he was showing Lestrade more than he wanted, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. If he would go down for it, he would accept the consequences. But he desperately wanted to spare John. "He doesn't even know I have them."

Lestrade snorted in answer. "For someone who calls himself a sociopath, you are a terrible liar. Why did you do it in the first place? Even you must know taking evidence from a crime scene isn't a smart move. Did you really want to make us do another drugs bust? Because you know we would."

"No, I… No."

"Why didn't you let us file them? Did you really think my men are incompetent enough to fail to notice them? Do you really think we would be that stupid?"

"No," Sherlock answered, his voice sounding small.

"Then what was it, Sherlock? Enlighten me."

Sherlock didn't respond. His mind was racing a hundred miles per hour and but he couldn't actually grasp a single thought. The anxious feeling in him had spiked and his hands started trembling. There was an itch underneath his skin and nervous energy crept upon him. He knew this feeling, he knew it all too well.

He also knew he needed John. Now.

Lestrade was starting to lose his patience. "You better come up with a bloody good reason right now."

Sherlock shook his head, still not looking up at the man in front of him. "I can't. I can't tell you."

"Oh, but I think you will," Lestrade insisted and walked closer to Sherlock. "You have to. You've already wasted your privilege to continue this case, but I'm sure you want to avoid putting yourself, and John, in a lot of trouble."

"Please Greg, don't," Sherlock tried and looked up at the man opposite him, hoping that the use of the DI's first name made him realize there was something else going on. "Just let this slide, okay? It was wrong of me to do so, I understand that. But trust me when I say I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have a valid reason."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and let the words sink in. He seemed to consider his options for a moment. Then, he sighed and continued, some of his anger replaced by disappointment. "You know, I really want to, but I can't. I can't trust you after this. Because here you are; obstructing the investigation, while there are men out there who are being tortured."

"You think I don't know that?!" Sherlock suddenly bellowed. "You think I don't know they're tired up; being kicked and punched and God knows what else until there isn't a single spot on their bodies that doesn't hurt? That I don't know what it's like to be screaming in pain, pushing until you've reached your breaking point? Praying you won't wake up after another blow to your head or hoping your body would just give up under the severity of your injuries? How it feels to stop having hope when you don't dare think of ways to escape because you have no clue what you'd do if you actually succeeded?"

His voice broke at the end and with a jolt, Sherlock realized he wasn't talking about the case anymore. And from the look Lestrade gave him, he knew too.

He had said too much and Sherlock knew he couldn't save himself out of this one. His eyes flickered from Lestrade to the files and back, desperately searching for something he could focus on, but there wasn't anything around that could comfort him. He was breathing heavily, panting even, as a wave of nausea hit him which he tried to suppress.

The detective walked towards the window in hope to calm himself a bit, but it didn't help. He knew he couldn't hold himself together much longer. He

"I think you should leave," Sherlock spoke after a while, his voice almost a whisper.

"Sherlock, I—" Lestrade tried, but the detective didn't let him finish.

"I said, leave!"

Sherlock turned around to face Lestrade. Their eyes met and glared at each other for a moment, both unwilling to give in. But in the end, Sherlock's furious gaze won and Lestrade turned away in defeat. With every bit of strength he had, Sherlock stood in place a little longer until he heard the front door close. He rushed to his room and immediately opened the doors of his wardrobe.

He reached for the box he kept hidden on the top shelf and opened it. His hands were trembling uncontrollably now, but he somehow still managed to take out the small, glass vial with the clear liquid in it. He held it up, looked at it, and swallowed. Somewhere deep down, he knew he shouldn't be doing this. He should be asking for help instead. But the helpless, forlorn feeling he had was too powerful and he just couldn't handle it on his own, not anymore.

He locked himself up in his bathroom in a desperate attempt to leave everything behind.


End file.
